


Lonesome On the Shelf

by ikeracity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst, Emotionally Crippled Erik, Lawyer!Erik, M/M, Marital Problems, Marriage, They Fail Multiple Times to Talk About Things They Need to Talk About, professor!charles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:23:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikeracity/pseuds/ikeracity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After three years of marriage, Charles has to admit that his relationship with Erik has significantly cooled off. These days, they're barely ever home at the same time and it seems like every conversation they have turns into an argument. Charles misses the way they used to be, misses the spontaneous dinner parties and the surprise morning sex and the wake up calls in the early mornings to catch the sunrise. But it's going to take two of them to fix this marriage, and some days, it seems as if all Erik wants is to be rid of him. </p><p>A fic about rekindling marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kageillusionz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageillusionz/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Lonesome On the Shelf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433230) by [Go_MrCactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_MrCactus/pseuds/Go_MrCactus)



> WUBBBBYYYYY DEAREST ah man I started this fic...months ago? I never meant for it to be this long, but you know how I am with these things. Anyway, SURPRISE, here's a gift fic for you along the lines of one of the prompts you gave me once. It doesn't follow the prompt very closely, but I hope you like it anyway :) 
> 
> Title taken from Ingrid Michaelson's "You and I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: If I've gotten anything wrong re: Jewish weddings, please _please_ correct me!

**PROLOGUE**

They get married on a Tuesday night, which is really Charles’ fault because he liked the idea of a ceremony in the sunset and Erik had expressed no preference. What he hadn’t counted on was being required to fast from the break of dawn until after the whole ceremony was done, which leaves him starving by the time noon hits. Raven snacks periodically as she runs in and out on last-minute errands, and though he’s immensely tempted to ask her to pass him just one crisp, he keeps his mouth shut. He’s not about the ruin this for Erik, not because his stomach’s being grumbly.

“You can’t eat anything?” Moira asks when she finds him staring morosely out the window at the caterers. “Not even a piece of candy? I’ve got a Snickers bar. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Charles moans. “No, I can’t eat anything. We’re supposed to be fasting.”

“You’re playing hard and fast with the rules already. What’s bending another one?”

“That’s exactly the point. Erik said that since we’re skipping some of the other stuff, he wants us to at least get this right.”

They’d debated, very briefly, following the tradition of not seeing each other a week before the wedding. Charles, who would’ve been determined to give it a try if Erik had asked, had nevertheless been relieved when Erik had told him they could probably omit that, given the fact that they lived together already. They’d similarly omitted some of the other practices to allow for Charles’ distinct lack of knowledge of Jewish traditions, but on the fasting, Erik hadn’t budged.

Charles is now trying to distract himself by reviewing the steps of the _chuppah_ in his head, every now and then consulting the diligent notes he’d taken when Erik had walked him through the ceremony earlier this week. It’s all making him quite anxious—there are just so many _steps_ and protocols and words to remember and if he fucks this up, he’ll have ruined Erik’s mother’s dream wedding, which is possibly the most frightening possibility he’s ever been faced with. Though she’s not alive to see them now, her memory is a large part of what’s fueling Erik through this whole affair and the last thing Charles wants to do is disappoint.

Only the fact that Erik will be there every step of the way to give him mental hints if he stumbles helps calm his nerves. Erik loves him, he reminds himself as he straightens his bowtie restlessly in front of the mirror. Erik’s going to love him even if he mangles his lines and trips on his own feet coming down the stairs.

By the time the actual ceremony begins, he’s glad he hasn’t eaten anything because he’s sure that he’d have thrown it all up again at the sight of the crowd. Normally, he’s good with people, good with attention, but there’s something about all of their stares today that feels expectant and heavy. Raven waves at him from the front row and he manages a strained smile, empty stomach flipping.

Then Erik arrives in all his white-tuxedoed glory and Charles forgets his nervousness, forgets his hunger. Erik is _radiant_ in his perfectly-fitted suit and razor-straight bowtie and neatly combed hair. Charles’ breath actually catches at the sight of him, amazed that even after all this time, he can still be surprised by how damnably handsome Erik is.

The _chuppah_ passes in a haze. Charles is both acutely aware of every single detail and barely cognizant of what’s happening, so dazed is he by the fact that he’s _marrying_ Erik, that soon they’re going to be husbands together like he’d once only dreamed they’d be. The wintry February day they’d met seems so long ago now, as if it belongs to another lifetime. Charles had thought Erik was the sexiest creature he had ever seen, even while Erik had been busy patting Charles up and down with paper towels and apologizing profusely for spilling coffee all over him. “I’m going to marry him,” he’d declared later to Raven on the phone while he’d been tossing his coffee-stained shirt into the laundry machine. “Just watch.”

Now his sister is sitting in the front row watching as he tips the wine back, his hands around the cup shaking ever-so-slightly. Erik steadies him with a brief brush of reassurance across his mind. _Almost done_.

He breaks the ceremonial glass under his foot, and almost before Charles realizes it, they’re being ushered to a private room and pushed inside together, the door pulling shut behind them as soon as they’ve passed it.

It’s the first time they’ve been alone together all day. Charles takes a shaky breath and says brightly, “We did it.”

“We did,” Erik replies, tilting his head back for a kiss. Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s neck to pull him closer, knocking that beautiful bowtie askew.

It’s Charles’ stomach that pulls them apart, growling like a snapping dog between them. “Oh god, I’m sorry,” Charles gasps, his face flushed. “I’m just—I’ve been starving all day.”

Erik looks at him for a moment before laughing. “I love you. So fucking much. Come here, there’s food in here for us.”

“Oh, thank you.”

They settle cross-legged by a selection of fruits and breads, and Erik feeds him grapes one by one, deep-lying warmth thrumming contentedly through his mind. Charles knows his own mind is much the same, brimming with love and excitement and a giddy touch of apprehension. They’re married. Four years after they first exchanged numbers, he’s gotten everything he ever wanted and more.

“That wasn’t too bad, was it?” Erik asks, toeing off his dress shoes.

“Not at all.” Charles smiles. “No, it was perfect.”

“I’m glad you thought so.” His gaze turning introspective, Erik picks restlessly at his bowtie. “I think she would have liked it. My mother, I mean.”

“I’m sure she would have loved it.”

They don’t get up to much more than snacking and a bit of necking before they’re summoned back out to rejoin the main festivities, where they receive dozens of felicitations from all their friends. Raven cries a little and Moira tears up as she tells Charles how much she’ll miss carousing around bars with him looking to pick up hot dates. Erik’s friend Azazel offers again to take the entire wedding party to the Caribbean to catch a gorgeous sunset, and Erik laughs and tells him maybe later.

There is, of course, dancing, where Erik steps on Charles’ toes six times and only gets progressively worse the more drinks he tosses back. Charles dances with everyone in turn after Erik retires to the side to just watch, after he gets too tipsy to coordinate his limbs properly. And Charles’ mother even shows up for a few minutes toward the end, managing to carve out a little window of time in her business to come by to give him a rather emotionless congratulations. It’s splendid fun and a great party, but the best part is when Erik whispers in his ear, “Want to get out of here?” and tugs him away by his belt before he can even answer.

Their wedding night is, sadly, a blur. They’re both too drunk to even get their pants off, and they wake up drooling on each other in the huge, rose petal-covered bed of the honeymoon suite of a hotel they don’t even remember booking. But the morning sex more than makes up for it, and afterwards, sweaty and panting, Charles collapses onto his back next to Erik and says, “I want to do this every day for the rest of my life.”

“What?” Erik asks drowsily. “Honeymoon?”

“No, silly. I just want to wake up with you like this.” He turns his head far enough to kiss Erik’s bare shoulder. “Although honeymooning every day for the rest of my life also sounds appealing.”

“You know what sounds more appealing at the moment?”

“What?”

“Taking a shower together and getting dressed.” Erik bends over him and mouths at his neck. “Then we’re going to go downstairs and order the priciest breakfast we can find. We’re going to see who can drink more orange juice in sixty seconds and then whoever wins gets to fuck the other one against a wall, any wall. You can pick the wall.”

Charles laughs, tangling his fingers in Erik’s hair as Erik licks at his nipple. “And then?”

“Then we’re going to get back into bed and we’re going to watch reality TV until we get sick of it. And then…I don’t know, we can have sex some more until we have to go the airport. And _then_ we’re going to join the mile-high club.”

“Oho, ambitious, are we?”

Erik shrugs. “It’s our honeymoon. What’s a honeymoon without a little risk?”

Charles laughs again and then rolls him over to kiss the breath out of him. _What indeed._


	2. Chapter 1

**THREE YEARS LATER**

When Charles gets home on Thursday night, the house is, predictably, empty. Taking advantage of the fact that Erik isn’t around to mercilessly tease him for his vocal ability, he sings Four Top’s “I Can’t Help Myself” as he strips off his coat, toes off his shoes, and slides down the hallway in his socks to his study, where he deposits his briefcase on his desk before ambling back out to the kitchen to fix up dinner.

Once a plate of leftover pasta is in the microwave, he pulls out his phone to check for messages. He’d been half-expecting a text from Erik telling him he’ll be home late, but the last message exchanged between them was the one at 1:48 pm, reminding him to drop by the store on his way home. Damn, he’d forgotten.

 _forgot groceries_ , he texts Erik. _can you get them or should I tomorrow?_

He sets his phone down on the counter and goes to fetch the pasta from the microwave. He thinks about setting out another portion for Erik, but there’s no telling when Erik will be home; his hours at work have been increasingly erratic these days. Once or twice, he’s even slept at the office, too overworked with cases to bother going home for even a change of clothes.

He eats dinner on the couch with the TV turned on to NCIS. Without Erik there with him to guess at the killers, his attention wanders, and by the time the episode is over, he can’t really remember what it was about. He switches the channel to some news and gets up for a drink. In the kitchen, he debates breaking out a bottle of wine, but he doesn’t like drinking alone so he leaves it on the rack and just gets water from the fridge.

After dinner, he takes a quick shower and then sits in the study to look over some exam papers, armed with a red pen and a cup of hot tea. He’s halfway through the fourth exam when the front door swings open with a loud creak and Erik’s mind enters his awareness with an abruptness that’s almost startling. One brush against Erik’s consciousness is all it takes for Charles to know it’s going to be a bad night; irritation prickles all along the surface of Erik’s mind, and underneath the annoyance is a bone-deep weariness that sinks Erik into a lethargy and makes Charles tired in response.

After tallying the points on the page he’s on and circling it at the bottom, Charles caps his pen and ventures out to find Erik slowly hanging up his scarf on the coatrack.

“Hello, darling,” he says. “Rough day?”

Erik groans. “You wouldn’t believe. This case is killing me.”

“Want me to heat up some pasta for you?”

Displeasure flashes across both Erik’s face and his mind. “Pasta? Again? Do we really have nothing else in this house?”

Charles frowns. “We made too much pasta. I don’t want it to go bad.”

“ _You_ made too much pasta, you mean,” Erik retorts. “I’m tired of it. Is there anything else to eat?”

It’s been a long day. He’s been rushing from lab to class to lab, barely pausing to gobble down a sandwich and a cup of mediocre tea for lunch. A student of his was caught cheating today and he’ll have to file disciplinary complaints tonight or tomorrow, whenever he finds time. His temper is delicate tonight, and it takes an effort to keep it in check at the snappishness in Erik’s tone. “I only made pasta because you like it,” Charles reminds him a bit stiffly.

Erik shucks off his shoes and brushes past him down the hall. “Not three days in a row, I don’t. It’s okay, I’ll just make a hot pocket or something.”

“Er,” Charles says, trailing after him.

Erik pulls open the freezer and stops. Closing it again, he reaches down to open the refrigerator and then asks tetchily, “Why isn’t there any food except that damn pasta?”

“I forgot to stop by the store,” Charles explains. “I sent you a text asking you to do it.”

Erik’s annoyance rises, beginning to border on real anger. Slowly shutting the fridge door, he takes a breath before saying very calmly, “It was a simple thing, Charles. I asked you to go by the store that’s literally _two blocks_ away from your university and get three things—”

“You don’t have to yell at me,” Charles interrupts, eyes narrowing. “I forgot, okay? It’s something people do.”

“I’m not yelling,” Erik says, but he’s doing that thing where he makes his disapproval perfectly clear without raising his voice. “I just thought I could rely on you for this one thing. I guess I should have known better.”

Now Charles’ temper _does_ flare. “And what is _that_ supposed to mean?”

For a moment, Erik is silent. They’ve been having arguments like these often enough that Charles knows exactly what’s going through his mind without having to peek: he’s deciding if it’s worth it to fight or if he’s tired enough to just let it go. Back when their relationship had still been new, back at the beginning of their marriage even, they’d never let quarrels go unresolved for long; there might be shouting and accusations and more than a little snapping at each other, but they’d always come to a conclusion and moved on. But these days, one or both of them storming out in the middle of a heated argument is becoming more and more common. It feels like they’ve been in a fight for weeks.

“Nothing,” Erik says finally, his voice quiet again. “I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed.”

He disappears before Charles can manage another word. All the anger deflates out of him as soon as Erik’s gone, and he leans against the kitchen counter, rubbing his temples tiredly.

He sleeps on the couch that night. It just seems cleaner.

 

*

 

The next morning, Erik’s already gone out on his morning run by the time Charles wakes up, which means the bathroom is clear for Charles to use at his leisure. There’s no wrestling for space on the counter or race to the shower, so he lounges on the couch for a little longer until 7:00 and then takes a long, hot shower that washes the tension lingering from last night from his shoulders. There’s nothing in the kitchen suitable for breakfast besides a box of slightly-stale Pop-Tarts, so he settles for a glass of water and decides he’ll just pick up a bagel at the on-campus food court on his way to his office.

He means to send Erik a text as soon as he gets to the university to apologize again for forgetting groceries but there’s already a student waiting outside his door when he arrives, and he’s sucked into a half hour of explaining genetic mapping, phone forgotten in his briefcase.

Directly afterward, Emily Allen, the girl caught cheating on the last exam, comes in shamefaced to talk with him, and the rest of his office hours of the morning are used up making sure she understands exactly what the repercussions of her actions will be. Disciplining a student is Charles’ least favorite part of being a professor, so his mood, already fairly low, takes a swift nosedive, especially once Emily starts crying.

By lunch time, an uncomfortable pressure has begun behind his eyes, and despite his efforts to rub away the impending headache, it marches relentlessly on anyway and by his afternoon class at 2:15, it’s settled firmly and painfully in the forefront of his mind. He tries not to move his head too quickly as he lectures, and he’s sure his students notice the unusual lassitude of his lecture but he can’t muster up the energy to put on much of a front.

Afterwards, when he lingers by the podium to field questions, Hank, his TA, murmurs, “Dr. Xavier, you alright? You look a little pale.”

Charles grimaces. “I’m not feeling too well. Probably the flu going around. Hopefully I caught a mild strain of it.”

“I can mark up the exams if you want?” Hank offers helpfully. Normally Charles grades them himself, but Hank has helped him from time to time. He’s never graded an entire class on his own before though, and though he’s perfectly competent and impeccably trustworthy, Charles still hesitates.

Finally he says, “Thank you, Hank, but I think I can manage. Have a good weekend.”

Hank smiles and nods. “You too, Professor.”

By the time Charles gets home, it’s imminently clear that he hasn’t caught a mild strain of the flu. His nose is stuffy, his muscles ache, and his head feels muddled. He tosses his briefcase into the study and then goes on the hunt around the house for Tylenol. There’s some in the bathroom cabinet, and he takes it with a handful of water from the tap, wincing as the pills slide down his throat. Since his telepathy sometimes acts up when he’s sick, he coils it up tightly and tucks it in the back of his mind. Then he drags himself to the bedroom and crawls into his side of the bed.

No sooner has he shut his eyes than his phone rings, audible all the way down the hall from his study. With a groan, he screws his eyes shut and tries to ignore it for a couple of seconds. But he always has those odd little fears of missing an important call—what if the university has a notice for him, or what if Raven needs an emergency babysitter, or what if Erik is hurt—so he throws off the covers again, shuffles out of the bedroom and to the study, and fishes his phone out from his briefcase.

Erik’s name flashes across the screen. Stifling a cough, Charles accepts the call. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Erik says, sounding distracted. “Look, I’ll be home late tonight. If we run over too late, I might stay over at Emma’s.”

“Oh.” Emma is Erik’s work colleague who lives only a block away from the office, so Erik has crashed at her place more than once after working into the early hours of the morning. At first Charles had thought nothing of it, but Erik has stayed with her for a couple of nights every week for the last month at least. He isn’t afraid of Erik having an affair—no, they’d agreed a long time ago before they were married that if they were going to have an affair, they might as well come straight out and break up, and Erik always honors deals with unwavering conviction—but it makes him uneasy when Erik spends nights away from him. It makes him uneasy, and more than a little sad, to think that Erik would prefer to sleep on a friend’s couch than go home to his husband, no matter how convenient it might be.

He starts to sigh and then stops it in his throat, knowing that his disappointment will only serve as another point of contention between them. “Okay,” he says evenly. “Don’t overwork yourself.”

“Mm,” Erik replies. “I have to go. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure.”                                                    

As soon as he hangs up, a horrible cough wrenches its way painfully up his throat and he goes to fetch water from the kitchen, eyes watering. Then he collapses back into bed and doesn’t bother to set an alarm. It’s a while before his headache subsides enough for him to fall asleep.

 

*

 

He wakes to the feeling of strong fingers carding gently through his sweaty hair. When he cracks his left eye open, Erik is sitting by his side, his mouth pinched in concern. The bedside lamp is switched on, casting soft yellow light over the room. Charles blinks blearily and starts to ask what time it is, only to be interrupted by a hacking cough that seems to rattle his ribs.

“You should have told me you were sick,” Erik murmurs, holding Charles through it. He hands over a glass of water when the coughing fit has subsided enough for Charles to take it.

The glass is freezing against his hands, and he realizes then that he’s feverishly hot and sweating through his clothes. He takes a couple of steadying sips of water and then sets it on the bedside table so his hands are free to push off the blankets. Erik helps him fold back the comforter to the foot of the bed and then strips off Charles’ sweater when Charles holds his arms up. With a bit of cooperation, they wrestle off Charles’ slacks and then sit him up against the headboard, where he simply breathes for a moment, still overheated in just his boxers and his undershirt.

“You should have told me you were sick,” Erik says again finally.

“What time is it?”

“Almost 2.”

_“Two?”_

“Don’t get out of bed,” Erik orders sternly, before Charles can even move.

“But—”

“But it’s Saturday. You don’t have class.”

“Oh.”

Erik touches the back of his palm to Charles’ forehead and grimaces. “You’re running a high temperature. I don’t think it’s changed at all since I got home.”

“When _did_ you get home?”

“About three hours ago? I came back at 11 to get a change of clothes and found you passed out in bed.” He doesn’t say it aloud but the worry in his voice is audible. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“It started just yesterday.”

“Okay well…” Erik reaches for the bedside table. “Here’s Tylenol and there’s water. Take two pills every four hours. I also have the electric blanket here in case you get cold. And here’s your phone in case you start feeling worse. Give me a call if you do.”

Charles eyes the assortment on the table with a frown. “Are you leaving?”

Erik breaks two tablets out from their wrapping and hands them over. “You know I can’t stay. We’re reaching the critical point of this case. I’ve barely even had time to sleep. You’re lucky I had to get a fresh shirt and tie this morning or else I might not have even come home. I should have gone back to the office right after, but…well. I’ve already wasted enough time.”

“Wasted,” Charles echoes. The sentiment stings, as much as he knows Erik doesn’t mean his words the way they sound. “Well, go then.”

His voice might be a little sharper than he intends because Erik’s eyes narrow. “You think I _want_ to leave you here like this?” he says testily. “I’ve just got work.”

“I know. You always have work.”

It’s not meant to be accusatory, but apparently Erik takes it that way because he stands up with a frustrated huff and picks up his suit jacket from the armchair pulled up close to the bed. Charles almost apologizes but there’s no reason to; he’s not wrong and if Erik’s going to be pissy about Charles pointing out a simple fact, then Charles isn’t going to bother with him. He’s too tired for it.

“Look,” Erik says at last, once he’s got his jacket on, “just call me if you’re feeling worse, okay? I’ll be home tonight probably. I’ll see you then.”

Charles nods. It isn’t until Erik’s halfway out the door that he calls out, “Good luck on your case.”

At that, Erik pauses, his eyes softening as he looks back. “Thanks,” he says. Then, more gently: “Get some rest.”

“Will do,” Charles mumbles, sliding down until he’s on his back in the bed again. Unfurling his telepathy, he keeps a light touch on Erik’s mind as it travels down the hallway, pauses in the kitchen—and here the pantry squeaks open—and then continues on out the front door. Once Erik is down the street, Charles lets him go and retreats back into his own mind, trying to quell the incessant headache through sheer willpower.

He spends the rest of the day sleeping on and off, only venturing from the bedroom once to rummage around in the kitchen for something to eat. He finds a bowl of chicken soup in the fridge, waiting to be microwaved. Erik must have fetched it this morning when Charles had still been asleep. The gesture makes Charles smile.

Erik doesn’t come home that night, but he does call at eleven to check up on Charles’ condition. Charles, who’s feeling only marginally better, tells him not to worry too much. He’d been sick like this last year, too, and it had passed within three days, leaving Charles none the worse for wear.

“Keep warm,” Erik tells him. “And don’t forget the medicine. Two pills every—”

“Four hours. I know.”

“Good. You’d better not get out of bed to try to do any work. Not when you’re still coughing your lungs up.”

“I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Yeah, well. You still sound like shit.”

“Thank you, husband dearest,” Charles says dryly. But he has to admit that his voice is in no condition to be talking much, let alone lecturing. After a moment, he asks, trying not to sound too hopeful, “Are you coming home soon?”

“I can’t. The team is powering through the home stretch here. Maybe a couple more nights and we’ll be able to ease back the overtime.”

A couple of more nights. Charles doesn’t know when the empty bed next to him has become the norm, but he’s suddenly beginning to realize how lonely it is. He can picture perfectly the shape Erik makes when he curls up on his side in sleep, sometimes around Charles, sometimes facing away. It occurs to him that he hasn’t actually seen that sight in a long while.

Swallowing, he says lightly, “Don’t stay up too late now. You can’t work through cases as a zombie.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Erik replies, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice that Charles is glad to hear. “I’ve got to go. Don’t stay up too late yourself. Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, love.”

He rearranges himself as comfortably as he can in bed and dozes for a good few hours. When he wakes up again, he’s more lucid than before, and his head isn’t pounding as fiercely. Even that slight improvement cheers him up a bit, and once he feels up to it, he climbs out of bed, heats up some pasta, and carries it to his study to nibble on as he goes through some of the exam papers. His good students do well, as always, but his bad students who normally fail or fall dangerously close to failing climb into the C and B ranges, surprisingly enough. It probably isn’t an indication of an improvement in Charles’ teaching, and hopefully it isn’t an indication of more cheating, but it’s nice when his students do well. It feels like a triumph.

After finishing off the exams, he wraps himself up in blankets and watches TV on the couch for a little while. There’s nothing particularly good on, and though he tries to watch C-SPAN for a few minutes, it’s not as interesting without Erik there to argue politics with him. He considers reading some of the research journals he’s been meaning to catch up on but he’s feeling too listless to muddle through scientific jargon, even on subjects that normally fascinate him.

He’s saved from his restless boredom when the phone rings. It’s Raven, who hears the first word out of his mouth and demands, “Are you sick?”

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Feeling better than yesterday though.”

“You want me to come over?”

“You don’t have to, no. Were you calling for something?”

“I wanted to ask if you’d babysit Kurt tonight, but it’s okay. You should rest.” She pauses for a second and then adds, “I’ll come over.”

“No need,” Charles assures her, suppressing a cough so vigorously that his eyes water. “If you were planning to go out with Azazel, go ahead.”

“Where’s Erik?”

“At work. Why?”

“Could have guessed that one,” Raven says, displeasure curling around her words. “Did he even come home last night or was he _sleeping over_ at that other woman’s house again?”

He knew he should never have told Raven about Erik’s arrangement with Emma. She doesn’t know Erik—or Emma, for that matter—nearly as well as Charles does, and she assumes the worst, indignant on his behalf every time the topic comes up. Ruefully, he misses the old days, back when they’d all been good friends in the Mutant Initiative at Columbia. Now they’re all grown up and disparate, seeing each other only a couple of days a week if that, glimpsing each other’s lives through little more than brief conversations here and there and hearsay.

It’s no secret that Charles’ marriage has been rocky lately. Raven has made her position on the issue quite clear, her disdain for Erik growing in his absence. But Charles hasn’t really noticed her feelings on the matter until now, when she sneers, “He stayed out, didn’t he. Told you he was just staying over at her place after a late case? You know, Charles, sometimes I really worry about you. You’re _way_ too naïve about him.”

Has it really gotten that bad, Charles wonders in astonishment, that their friends are taking sides? A chill slips down his spine and settles uneasily in his stomach. He says tiredly, “He’s not having an affair, Raven. I’m a telepath; I’m pretty sure I’d know.”

“So’s she, isn’t she? What if she just—I don’t know— _erases_ things from his mind so you won’t know?”

“I’m pretty sure I’d notice someone meddling around in my husband’s mind,” Charles replies dryly.

“When has he been around enough for you to notice?” Raven shoots back, and the truth of it hits him a little under his ribs, driving the breath from him.

Once, a long time ago when they’d still been dating, they’d laid outside on the grass of the lawn of his Westchester estate and stared upward at the stars until their eyes hurt. There had been something about the vastness of the dark sky that had made the moment intimate, and Erik had confided to Charles in hushed tones that he was afraid of spiders and he hated centipedes, so when they got married (and they had known even then they were getting married, had been absolutely certain of it, even if they were only fresh college graduates), Charles was going to have to deal with them if they appeared in their house—and there had been a special pleasure in saying that: _their_ house, like their future was all mapped out for them and all they had to do was step into it. And Charles, curled up close to Erik’s side with his head pillowed on Erik’s arm, had admitted, “I’m afraid of being lonely.”

Erik knew about Charles’ mother, who had been absent from his life long before she’d died. He knew also about Charles learning to entertain himself, to become self-sufficient when he was eight, to learn what _emancipation of a minor_ was when he was only ten. And, in one of his rare moments of sweetness, he’d declared, his voice soft and full of promise, “You don’t have to be lonely ever again.”

The problem with marriage, Charles thinks, is that it brings with it a certain kind of complacency blinds you to its problems for a very long time. He hasn’t really noticed the hooking, long-term loneliness that’s set in, like an unpleasant ache under his heart.

“Charles?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m just…” He puts his burning forehead against his hand and sighs. “It’s been a rough few weeks. I’m just tired.”

There’s a pause in which he can almost hear her deliberating. Then she says, “Okay, I’m coming over,” and hangs up before he can say a word.

There’s really no point in arguing with Raven when she’s made up her mind, so Charles just stays where he is on the couch and slowly thumbs through a copy of Saturday’s New York Times, taken off the stack of newspapers Erik always keeps on the coffee table to keep up with current events. On the front page is news that the newest mutant legislation going through Congress has hit a gridlock and isn’t expected to make it through the Senate. Though Charles and Erik haven’t actually spoken about it, they debated enough about every single mutant issue in existence when they were in college together that Charles knows exactly what Erik would think about the bill. It’s too conciliatory, he’d sniff contemptuously. It’s catering to the human congressmen, nothing more than a measure to appease the mutants without achieving any concrete progress toward true equality. He’s never seen progress in shades of gray; for him, it’s always been all or nothing.

When Raven arrives, Charles doesn’t bother to get up, knowing she’ll use the spare key hidden in the flowerpot outside to let herself in. The door opens with a bang, blown open by the wind outside, and Charles feels Raven’s wince more than sees it.

“Sorry,” she calls out apologetically, shoving the door closed. The whine of the wind cuts out once it’s shut, and after a moment, Raven stomps through from the hall to the living room, her hands laden with grocery bags.

Charles raises his eyebrows. “What’s all that?”

“Food. I’m making you soup.”

“And you needed to lug the entirety of your refrigerator’s contents over here to do it?”

“Well,” Raven replies pragmatically, “I’m bound to fuck it up at least once. I brought extra ingredients just in case.”

He wants to be stern— _I know you, Raven, and if you break my kitchen, you are paying for it—_ but instead of exasperation, a swell of fondness overtakes him, and he says, “Thanks for coming over.”

She smiles briefly and then clicks her tongue, wheeling around to head to the kitchen. “You can’t be left all alone, can you? You can barely be counted on to feed yourself when you’re healthy. You’re like one of those helpless little puppies that don’t even have their eyes open yet.”

“Hey!”

“It’s true. Now come sit with me in the kitchen. You don’t need to help but at least keep me company.”

Obligingly, Charles picks himself up and totters after her to the kitchen, blankets wrapped tightly around his shoulders, half-empty tissue box tucked under his arm. He settles down at the circular kitchen table as Raven begins to unpack ingredients from her bags: everything from frozen peas to actual canned soup. When Charles glanced askance at the latter, Raven explains, “In case I _really_ fuck all this up. Then you’re getting the canned stuff.”

His heart squeezes with sudden affection. “Thank you,” he says again, propping his elbows up on the table and watching as Raven rummages through the cabinets. “You didn’t need to come over.”

“Yes, I did. Azazel and I were just going to the movies tonight. We can go tomorrow or something.”

“Perfect. Now he’s going to murder me in my sleep for ruining his date night.”

“Oh please. Azazel _loves_ you. Now where do you keep your pots?”

“Left cabinet under the sink.” Idly, he reaches for the book of crosswords hidden under a pile of napkins. He and Erik used to do a load of these in the mornings, but they haven’t had much time lately. The pen they used is still bookmarking the last puzzle they stopped on, and Charles picks it up and scans over the leftover clues. “How’s Kurt?”

“Growing every day. Azazel and I are fighting over what school to send him to. There’s one that’s close to home and its safety rating is really good. There’s another school we’re looking into that has much better policies and safeguards for mutant kids. But the problem is that it’s twenty minutes from home and its safety rating is…well, it’s not great, but I want Kurt to grow up with a good school experience, you know? Not like what we had. And the distance doesn’t really even matter, with Azazel.”

She gestures as she talks, waving around the ladle she’s found in one of the drawers. She looks good, Charles muses as he studies her. She’s no longer the angry teenage girl who walked around school with rainbow streaks in her hair and once went three days without wearing any clothes and was nearly expelled from college for it. (Charles is still a little miffed at Erik for convincing his sister that clothes were restrictive and oppressive, but that’s, as Erik calls it, ancient history now.) She’s grown into herself, confident in her own body and strengths, content with the life that’s taken shape around her. Amazing, to think that the little sister who used to yank on his hair when they were little to get his attention is now fretting over what school to send her own child to.

When she catches him staring, she asks, “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” He smiles. “We’re all grown up.”

“Charles, we’ve been grown up for almost ten years. Don’t tell me you’re just now realizing we’re not teenagers anymore.”

He shrugs. “Of course not. But…it’s weird to think that we used to be doing keg stands every other weekend and now we’re thinking about children and taxes and jobs.”

Raven rolls her eyes and dumps a bunch of carrots out onto a chopping board. “Don’t worry, Charles. I’ll always be the little sister who wiped your mouth after you vomited all over the floor when you got hungover.”

Charles laughs. “Good to know.” And it _is_ nice to know that some things don’t change.

As Raven attempts to work some magic in the kitchen, Charles fills out the unfinished crossword puzzle and then moves on to the next one. Raven sets her phone on the iPhone dock by the toaster and plays a whole slew of songs with a party beat, banging her head to the music as she tosses ingredients into the pot and consults a printed recipe she’s brought with her. It’s comfortable and lighthearted and reminds him of the apartment they used to share when he’d been in college and she still in high school. Even the stuffiness in his head feels lighter with her around.

The smell that eventually permeates the kitchen is actually not unpleasant, so Charles sheds his blanket shell and wanders over to see what’s brewing. He’s not a great chef himself—if it’s anything other than a very simple pasta or breakfast foods, he’s hopeless—and to his untrained eye, the mush in the pot doesn’t look like any soup he’s ever seen before. But Raven confidently shakes some salt out into the mix and stirs and he doesn’t say a word. At least nothing’s caught on fire yet.

“It shouldn’t take much longer,” Raven announces, peering into the bubbling soup.

The opening chords of “Crazy In Love” blare through the speakers, and out of habit, both of them look at each other. Then Raven sets the ladle down on a nearby empty plate and arches her eyebrows encouragingly.

“I’m sick,” Charles protests.

Raven shakes her head dismissively. “You’ll feel better afterwards. You’ve probably been lying around all day. Come on.”

 _“You ready?”_ Beyoncé asks before Charles can offer more resistance, and with a sigh, he cocks his hip, much to Raven’s delight. When he starts nodding his head with the beat, she follows in suit. Then the music begins in earnest, and they start to dance, hips popping, hands thrown up in the air, singing along to lyrics they’ve had memorized since the song first came out. In her blue form, Raven doesn’t flush with the exertion but her eyes are bright and her smile is slightly wild. Before he knows it, he’s grinning himself, exhilarated by the simple freedom of letting everything go for a few minutes and losing himself in the music, in something as mindless and easy as letting the beat carry him.

He and Raven drifted in their teenage years, but one thing that had kept them from falling apart entirely was their love for dancing. He can’t remember exactly how many clubs and bars they’ve frequented over the years, but some of his best memories with Raven are on the dance floor, their faces painted in shadows and light from the strobe lights.

The next time the chorus hits, Raven grabs his arm and yells the lines in his face, violently off-tune but enthusiastic. He returns the favor on the next set of lines and then spins her out, reeling her back in before she hits the counter. When she laughs, he laughs, too, and then they’re just laughing breathlessly along, dancing their way around the kitchen island and the round table, ducking under the low-hanging pans as they shimmy across the kitchen.

 _“Got me looking so crazy, my baby, I’m not myself lately, I’m foolish, I don’t do this, I’ve been playing myself, baby, I don’t care,”_ Raven shouts.

Charles leaps onto the kitchen rug by the sink and, with his momentum, rides it to the counter, where he slams into the cabinets and shouts back, uncaring of his sore throat, “ _Cause your love got the best of me, and baby, you’re making a fool of me, you got me sprung and I don’t care who sees cause baby you got me so crazy—”_

A sudden spike of powerful _emotion_ cuts him off, and he freezes when he looks over to find Erik standing just outside the kitchen, his eyes wide.

Raven takes one look at his face and stops, too. Her eyes narrow immediately when she spots Erik, and the annoyance that lashes from her mind is unmistakable.

“Erik,” Charles manages when he’s caught his breath. His cheeks are red and he’s sweating lightly. Wiping at his damp forehead with his sleeve, he says, “You’re home early today.”

Erik simply stares at him for a moment, his expression inscrutable. After a moment, Charles pushes past his headache and tentatively runs a touch over Erik’s thoughts and finds that Erik’s eyes are pinned on Charles’ jaw, on the drop of sweat that meanders down it to his exposed throat.

Oh. It feels like it’s been so long since they’ve even touched each other, let alone looked at each other like _this_ , with this sort of heat. Charles’ pulse, which is already racing, rockets up in renewed excitement. He stands there, his chest heaving, and feels Erik’s arousal roll up against his mind like a tidal wave.

“I…” Erik swallows, his eyes still riveted on Charles’ face. Then, clearing his throat, he glances away and nods down the hall. “Sorry. I was just coming back for a file I forgot at home. I have to go.”

When he turns and disappears without another word, all the elation and eagerness that had been roaring up in Charles crashes away like a toppling card house, leaving him suddenly, unbearably exhausted.

Raven touches his arm. “Charles?”

“Let’s, um…” He glances aimlessly around the room for something to redirect the conversation, trying to crush the disappointment that surges powerfully up through him. “…make sure the soup doesn’t burn?”

“Charles…”

“Really, Raven, I don’t want to have to scrape ashes off the bottom of the pot.” He brushes past her to take the ladle and swirls the soup around. Carrot slices bob up in the whirlpool, spinning in a sea of what looks like celery. “It looks…appetizing?”

Before she can defend her handiwork, Erik reappears in the doorway, file in hand. “Hey,” he says, his eyes traveling from Charles to Raven and then back. He meets Charles’ eyes briefly before nodding toward the door. “I have to get back to the office. Are you feeling better?”

No, he’s not. His headache has returned full-force, and his entire body aches, sweat sticking uncomfortably to his skin, which feels horribly overheated, like he’s been shoved into a hot tub. The music from the dock echoes through his ears painfully, and he has to turn to switch it off before he can hear himself think.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Erik nods. “Get some rest.”

Then he’s gone again. Charles is too tired to track him with his telepathy, so he just watches as Erik walks out the front door and shuts it behind him.

“Asshole,” Raven growls at his back. “I can’t _believe_ him. You look like a walking corpse and he just _leaves_.”

“He has work,” Charles says apathetically. He sits back down at the table and checks the clock on the wall. Has it been four hours since he last took medicine?

“What the fuck kind of excuse is that?” Raven snaps, stirring the soup angrily. “He’s a lawyer at some big fancy firm and he can’t take a day off to take care of his own husband?”

“He’s in the middle of a big case. Every minute is vital.”

“Okay, you,” she says, jabbing a finger at him. “You stop defending him. Why are you even trying to make excuses for him?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Charles demands, his own temper flaring. “Ask him to choose between me and the job?”

“Which do you think would win?” Raven shoots back, glaring at him. When he just stares at her, speechless, she continues, “Exactly.”

“It’s unfair of me to ask him to give up something he loves,” Charles says stubbornly. They’re answers that come easily to his mind, answers he’s come up with himself on nights when the bed next to him is empty. He knows Erik loves mutant litigation. He thrives off the environment, and absolutely nothing makes him prouder than winning a case. He still remembers Erik’s first real solo win, still remembers how Erik had come home with a giddy grin on his face, how he’d swept Charles up from couch and carried him straight to bed and made love to him in the sweetest, slowest way possible, pausing to kiss all the freckles on Charles’ back, hiding his smile in the curve of Charles’ shoulder as they’d rolled their hips languidly against each other. Afterwards, they’d gone out for dinner at a fancier restaurant than they usually bothered with, and they’d had a little too much wine and laughed a little too loudly and gone home when the waiters had been on the verge of asking them to leave because they were disturbing other patrons. He remembers Erik’s mind, so bright and happy and proud, and how happy he’d been himself, glad of Erik’s success.

How can he possibly take that away from Erik?

And, says the little niggling voice at the back of his mind, how could he ever compete?

“It’s unfair for you to sit here and take his bullshit and pretend like you’re happily married,” Raven retorts, resuming her stirring duty so furiously the soup nearly splatters out from the pot. “Because I remember you happy, Charles, and this isn’t anywhere near it.”

“Raven, please.” He puts his head in his hands and sighs. “Can we not talk about this now?”

“That’s your problem, Charles. You _never_ want to talk about this. But it’s a problem, whether you like it or not, and it’s not just going to go away if you keep ignoring it.” After a moment, she lays the ladle aside again and walks over to take the seat next to him. “Look,” she says, her voice softening, “have you ever considered that maybe Erik isn’t meant for married life?”

He stares at her. “What?”

“I mean, you loved each other. Love. Whatever. I’m not arguing that.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t even remember how many times I caught you two making out and trust me, that’s something a sister should never have to see. But you remember how Erik studied abroad in his junior year and he loved it and then he took a year off to go backpacking on his own and doing internships all over Europe?”

Of course he remembers. That had been their first try at a long-distance relationship and despite all the warnings they’d received from friends about the odds stacked against them, they’d made it through Erik’s yearlong absence without a hitch. “Yeah, why?”

“Obviously, Erik’s a free spirit. He’s not one for staying rooted in one place. People like that—they just get _restless_ , and marriage is…well, let’s face it. Marriage is a dead weight.”

Charles gapes at her. “You think…? You think Erik thinks I’m dead weight?” The idea is so absurd he nearly laughs.

“Don’t pretend like you’ve never thought it before,” Raven says, brow furrowing. “He’s ambitious, he’s got a great career ahead of him, he’s willing to put in the seventy-hour work weeks. How much further could he go if he didn’t have to come home every once in a while to check in with you? He’d probably sleep in his office permanently if he could.”

“That’s not—” Charles takes a breath. “Erik’s not _ruthless_ like that.”

“Charles.” Raven radiates concern so intensely that he can feel it without trying, even with his telepathy mostly tucked away. At her request, he hasn’t poked near her mind since she was fourteen years old, but she’s passionate and headstrong and has never really learned to temper her emotions. It’s never hard to guess at what she’s feeling or thinking, and he can tell now even without the aid of his powers that she’s both worried for him and frustrated at him. “You’re not stupid. You’re the smartest person I know. You just don’t want to admit that your marriage isn’t working out the way you hoped it would. Things aren’t going to magically change. _Erik’s_ not going to magically change. Can’t you see that?”

Of course he can see that. But he’s been wilfully ignoring it for so long that it feels impossible to confront now. He doesn’t know how to do anything anymore other than keep his mouth shut and endure.

Any remaining protest seems to vanish from his mind like water through cracks in the sidewalk. “How is it,” he says wearily, “that you understand my husband better than I do?”

“Hey, I’m a free spirit, too, remember? But it’s harder to feel tied down when your boyfriend can take you to Paris before you can finish asking.” She reaches out and squeezes his wrist, which is a sure sign that she’s as serious as she ever is; Raven usually hates physical contact. “I just don’t like seeing you unhappy.”

“I know. Thank you.” He slumps in his seat, rubs at his eyes, and sighs. “I think maybe…I think I just need to get away from all this for a while, you know? Some time away would give me some distance and perspective. It’d be easier to think.”

At that, Raven smiles encouragingly. “Yeah. You know what, that’s a great idea.” Brightening, she stands back up and goes to ladle the soup into bowls. “A vacation would be good for you. Get some fresh air, take some time off. Erik isn’t the only workaholic around here, you know.”

He manages a small smile at her stern look. “Somebody has to keep the students in line.”

“Well, somebody else can do it for a few days. You should go to the beach or something. Somewhere nice and breezy so you can lie out in the sun and get horrible tans I can laugh at when you get back.”

“You’re a fountain of good advice,” Charles tells her dryly. But his mood begins to lift at the prospect of taking some time to himself. It’s been way too long since he’s done that, with Erik or without. “I’ll figure something out.”  

“Okay, here we go,” Raven announces as she carries two steaming bowls over to the table and sets one in front of him. “Bon appétit.”

He takes the spoon and prods at a floating piece of onion. “Well, if we don’t die of food poisoning, I’ll consider this experiment a success.”

“Oh, shut up,” Raven snaps, rolling her eyes as she takes her seat. But she’s grinning and he is, too.

 

*

 

The opportunity comes a week later when Moira stomps into his office without bothering to knock and collapses into the chair opposite from him, the one usually reserved for visiting students. Given that this is a fairly regular occurrence, Charles barely looks up from his computer screen. “What’s wrong today?” he asks as he enters the latest quiz grades into the gradebook. “Student troubles? Lab troubles?” He slides her a sly glance. “Sean Cassidy troubles?”

“Not everything in my life is about Sean Cassidy,” she grumbles, glaring at him sullenly. “And for the record, we’re doing perfectly fine. He might even ask me out this week, I think. He’s been working up to it for long enough.”

“If he drags it on for much longer, you might have to ask him out yourself,” Charles remarks.

“I know,” Moira sighs. “I’ve got a plan. Anyway, that’s not what’s wrong.”

He checks his roll sheet against the grades already entered to try to figure out who didn’t put their name on their Scantron. “Mm?”

“Do you remember how I got an invite to be guest lecturer for that genetics seminar at the University of Toronto this weekend? Didn’t you get one, too?”

It takes a bit of thought but he eventually recalls declining the invitation because he thought he’d be too busy to go. But having worked long hours this past week to make up for the days he spent sick, he’s looking forward to just curling up on the couch doing absolutely nothing for as long as he can. “Yeah, the one that runs through Monday, right? What about it?”

“The problem is, I forgot I promised my mother I’d come down this weekend to spend time with them at the cabin in Philly. I haven’t seen them since Christmas, and they’ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks. I can’t just _cancel_. And I can’t cancel on the Toronto thing either; the guy up there is a friend of mine and I’d hate to let him down. So now I’ve got conflicting obligations and I’ve spent days trying to figure out a solution and I—”

Charles finally reaches the end of the roll and frowns. There are four students who don’t have an exam grade yet, and there’s only one Scantron without a name. “Moira. Just ask.”

“Hmm?” she says, almost, _almost_ innocently.

He sighs and puts down the papers. “Yes, I’ll go for you.”

Her eyes widen. “Seriously?” Sitting up rapidly, she props her elbows on the edge of his desk in front of his nameplate. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I don’t have anything to do this weekend anyway, and I can cancel Monday’s class. I’m sure my students would be overjoyed.”

Moira beams at him, bright relief burning through the thunderclouds of her worry. “They’ll be expecting a presentation, you know. Probably nothing too fancy—you’re just talking to a bunch of undergrads, after all—and there will probably be some Q&A afterwards.”

“I think I can handle that. I have an old presentation from the mutant genetics conference last year. Plus, Q&A? I love that stuff, and you know it.”

“You _do_ like showing off how smart you are,” she says affectionately. “I owe you so much.”

“ _So_ much,” Charles agrees, though it’s really not much of a hardship. He enjoys seminars, loves the feel of dozens of inquiring minds all interested in the same topics he is. Erik might fall asleep after ten minutes of an intense discussion of mutagenic agents, but the sort of bright-eyed students who attend genetics seminars can’t get enough of them.

Besides, this is the perfect chance for him to get away for a few days. Three days doing nothing but lecturing on subjects he loves and interacting with like-minded people—what could be better?

“Bring me something delicious from Philadelphia and we’ll call it even,” he says.

“I’ll bring you more cheesesteaks than you know what to do with,” she replies with a grin. Standing she reaches over to ruffle his hair fondly. “Thank you so much. I’ll forward you travel details.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles says with a laugh, ducking away from her hand. “You want to get lunch at 12?”

“Mm, sounds good. I’ll buy.”

They have lunch at the on-campus Uris Deli and then Charles dashes off to his afternoon classes. It’s a fairly light day of lecturing, and he gets home at five in the afternoon feeling energetic and restless.

After putting his things in the study and stripping out of his slacks and dress shirt, he decides a run would do him some good, so he digs his running shoes out from under the bed and hunts down his sweatpants. It’s been a while since he’s been out for even a leisurely walk, and the weather outside is cooperatively sunny. He and Erik used to run a lot together in college and afterwards, used to wake up at horrendous times on Saturdays to try to find hills that gave them a good vantage point to see the sunrise.

In the back of their shared closet, behind the suits and neat polo shirts, are the long-sleeved shirts from the 2008 Boston Marathon. Charles checks the tag sizes to figure out which one is his and then slips it on. Then he laces up his shoes, stretches for a bit, checks his phone to make sure he’s not missing any messages from Erik (he hasn’t), and then heads out the door.

He takes the path he and Erik used to run back when they ran together, over to Central Park and onto Park Drive, past the Reservoir and then straight on until the trail loops back before it hits Central Park North. He hasn’t run in at least a few weeks, so he gets winded before long and has to walk back along the Reservoir, letting the breeze cool the sweat on his skin. It feels excellent to be outside and push his muscles, to let the drumming of his feet quiet his mind.

As he watches the sun set over the water, a horde of shrieking children scamper past as a tall, dark-skinned young woman with a marvelous purple tail chases gleefully after them. One of the children is leaving ice trails as he runs, each footstep generating a little patch of cold that freezes on the pavement. Behind them all is an older gentleman following at a leisurely pace, pausing every so often to press his heel on each patch of ice, melting it into steam through no other visible means than his weight.

Mutants, Charles thinks, are wonderful. So wonderful. He watches the group go by and smiles as the older gentleman winks at him.

The smile lasts all the way home. He unlocks the door to find Erik’s coat on the coatrack and Erik’s mind whirring away in the study, brimming with frustration. The dark edge of Erik’s thoughts extinguishes Charles’ running high like a candle snuffer over a flame, and he quietly toes off his shoes before going over to peek into the study.

“Hey,” he says, cracking open the door.

Erik holds up a finger and points to his phone. Apologetic, Charles shuts the door again and goes to fetch some water from the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Erik emerges from the study and runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Hey.” He eyes Charles’ attire. “Did you go for a run?”

Charles nods. “Up around Central Park.” He wipes his brow and scrutinized the tired slant of Erik’s shoulders, the stern line of his mouth. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just a little stressed. We hit a snag in the case.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No, not really.”

Charles hesitates. Part of him wants to go over and give Erik’s shoulders a quick massage, maybe distract him with a kiss and convince him to take a break for a few minutes. But he can already see how that will play out: Erik will complain about Charles getting sweat on his suit—which he hasn’t even bothered to change out of yet, so Charles wonders if he’s going back to the office soon—he’ll tell Charles he has no time to be fooling around, and he’ll shut himself back up in the study, more annoyed than before.

The last thing Charles wants at the moment is a confrontation, so he just offers, “I could take away some of that headache?”

Erik pauses. “Oh…yeah, that would be nice.”

Charles curls around his mind and sinks down far enough to push back the painful pulse behind Erik’s mind, forcing it to ease until it shrinks to a dull throb, then to nothing at all. Erik’s thoughts are sharp as glass, flying from point to point like bullets, a thousand memos and files and details he’s trying to pull together into one coherent, airtight case. While he’s there, Charles soothes Erik’s anxiety and clears away some of the exhaustion as well, throwing open the metaphorical curtains of Erik’s mind to admit some refreshing sunlight.

Erik lets out a soft sigh and opens his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. Remember, just because I fooled your mind into thinking you’re not as tired as you are, you’re still going to crash once all the exhaustion catches up to you.”

Erik’s lips twitch into a near-smile. “Yeah, I remember. You told me that often enough during finals week.”

Charles smiles, too, at the memory, and after a moment, Erik steps in closer and bends down for a kiss. It’s chaste and lasts barely five seconds, but it’s the first time they’ve touched each other in what feels like a decade. Feeling momentarily grounded again, Charles leans into it, chasing Erik’s taste.

“I’m sorry for being so busy lately,” Erik murmurs when they separate. His eyes sweep down Charles’ face, and he brings his thumb up to brush it against Charles’ jaw. “It’ll be better once this case is done.”

It’s as close to an admission of their drifting apart as Erik ever offers. But he’s said this same thing so often that the words barely have any meaning anymore. _No, it won’t_ , Charles thinks a bit wearily. _There’s always a case after this one._ But he keeps the thought corralled away and says aloud, “Sure.”

When Erik nods and disappears back to the study, Charles peels off his clothes and takes a long, hot shower. He closes his eyes under the showerhead and pretends Erik’s coming in any moment now to join him. Once, it had been impossible to get into the shower without Erik slinking in after him only a few minutes later, wearing nothing but a mischievous grin. _Study breaks_ , Erik used to call them when they were in college, and after that, it had been _work breaks_ , which were nothing more than extended make-out sessions against the tiled walls and unhurried fucks in the shower that wasted all the hot water.

His cock stirs a bit at the memory and, after a beat of hesitation, he wraps his hand around it, slowly pumping it to full erection. Even the lightest touch seems to send sparks shooting up through his spine. Now that he thinks about it, he and Erik haven’t had sex in weeks. The thought is staggering; they used to have sex marathons every day, if they could manage it. Charles hasn’t even jerked off, and all the pent-up sexual energy is coming to a head now, evident in the way his hips jerk desperately forward in his hand at the slightest pressure, eager for the nearly-forgotten pleasure of orgasm.

Carefully, he seals his mind completely to keep any hints of arousal from leaking out and then bites his lip as he begins to stroke his cock slowly, thumbing the tip and imagining Erik’s teeth against the back of his neck. It doesn’t take long before he’s bracing himself with his free hand against the wall, groin tightening as his fingers curl tighter around his shaft, the glide of his palm slicked with water. His teeth dig into his lip so deeply he nearly draws blood as he fights to keep from making any sound. The thought of that little noise Erik makes when he comes—just a soft gasp, like he’s releasing all the tension he’s ever carried, like he’s burst out through the edges of a storm into its calm, peaceful eye—is what pushes Charles over, and he pants raggedly, heart thundering in his chest, as come spills out over his fist into the hot shower water.

For a long moment, he presses his forehead against the cool tiles and simply stands there, catching his breath. It’s been far too long since he’s felt that good. When his legs have stopped trembling with pleasure, he washes the remnants of spunk off his hand and reaches for the shampoo.

When he emerges from the shower fifteen minutes later, the study door is still closed and Erik is speaking in low, curt tones to someone on the phone. Charles fixes himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and then flops in front of the TV to watch a recap of the morning’s Arsenal match with the volume turned nearly all the way down so it won’t disturb Erik.

After dinner, he makes himself some tea and Erik some coffee and knocks on the study door.

“Come in.”

“I brought coffee,” Charles announces with a smile, handing the mug over the desk, which is cluttered with open files and papers. Normally Erik is impeccably neat, but when he’s sunk deep into a case, he can’t be bothered. With his hip, Charles pushes a file that’s hanging over the edge of the desk closer to the computer so it’s not hanging so precariously.

Erik accepts the mug gratefully. “Thanks.”

“You mind if I sit here for a little bit?”

“Go ahead.”

Charles folds himself into the armchair in the corner of the study beside the bookcase and sips at his tea. “I’m going away to do a seminar this weekend.”

Erik glances up from the page he’s highlighting, his attention sharpening. “Where?”

“Toronto. It’s from Saturday to Monday. I’ll be back Monday morning.”

“Oh.” Erik frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“It was a last-minute favor for Moira.” The consternation in Erik’s expression makes Charles pause. “Why? Did you need something this weekend?”

“Maybe.” Irritation slices through Erik’s mind like an arrow through water. “I wish you’d told me earlier.”

His annoyance is puzzling. They’ve had last-minute trips before. Charles has flown off to conferences on unexpected invites and Erik’s disappeared on weeklong journeys for his cases or for training conventions. It’s not common, but it’s not as if it’s never happened.

“Did you have something planned?” he asks finally, uncoiling his telepathy. When he encounters the irascible edges of Erik’s mind, he withdraws. Erik hates it when he uses his telepathy when they’re fighting and now, apparently, they’re fighting. As is so often the case these days, he has no idea what he’s done.

Erik glares at his computer screen for a moment before dropping his highlighter on the table and turning the glower on Charles. “Yeah, I had something planned. I was going to take the afternoon off and take you to dinner, but I guess I can’t anymore.”

Charles gapes at him. “What? When did you…”

“I made the reservations on Monday,” Erik snaps, anger simmering just beneath the surface of his mind. “It was going to be a surprise.”

Floored, Charles just stares at him. It’s no one’s birthday, it’s not their anniversary, neither of them has had great career successes recently. There’s no reason for a surprise dinner out.

“I’m sorry,” he manages finally. “I didn’t think….What’s the occasion?”

Erik exhales in frustration. “What? I can’t take my husband out to dinner so we can eat something _other_ than microwave food and sandwiches for once?”

Oh. Nothing special then, except for Erik’s recently developed hatred of quick, easy meals. “If you hate freezer food and my sandwiches so much,” Charles says, struggling to keep his tone even, “why don’t you just cook your own dinner? You used to do that all the time.”

“Back when I had _time_. I’ve got cases now, I’ve got work—”

Charles is good at holding his temper. He’s never been a particularly angry person, and he likes to think he’s capable of remaining level-headed in heated situations. He’s a compromiser and a mediator, never the aggressor. But at the contemptuous look in Erik’s eyes, something in him snaps. “You _always_ have work! Every single day, almost every night—you’re never home anymore and we both know the instant you finish this case there’s going to be another one right after it, and another, and it’s never going to end.”

“You’re right.” Erik stands up, anger flashing across his face. “You’re right, it never ends. And you know why?” He jabs a finger out the window. “Out there, _every day_ , mutants just like us are being persecuted and shot at and arrested for no fucking reason at all, and a lot of times, the only thing standing between them and a wrongful prison sentence are lawyers like me. So excuse me if I don’t think it’s right for me to _take a day off_. If they can’t afford it then neither can I.” He shakes his head, his disdain striking Charles like a solid blow to the face. “God, Charles. What happened to you. You used to give a fuck about mutants and now all you think about is how I’m never around anymore to answer your every beck and call.”

For a long minute, Charles stares at him, speechless. Erik’s voice rings through his head, but the words make no sense because Erik would never accuse him of something like that, of being so shallow and needy and _callous_.

And then he begins to really register what Erik’s said and every thought in his mind smashes to a halt, like cars crashing into a wall. Something cold slides down his throat and sinks in his gut, but it isn’t quite anger. He just feels sick.

Very quietly, he stands up from the armchair, resisting the urge to hurl the mug in his hand at Erik’s face. “Fuck you,” he says, and he walks out, his back straight and rigid. When he turns at the doorway, he barely catches the hint of dawning regret on Erik’s face before he slams the door shut between them, so hurt and furious and frustrated he can barely stand it.


	3. Chapter 2

It’s a relief to pack his bags on Friday night and collect his plane ticket from Moira, who’s passing on the travel arrangements she received with the university invite. He and Erik haven’t been speaking for the last couple of days, so he’s surprised to walk into the kitchen on Saturday morning to find a bag of bagels neatly wrapped up for him on the counter. They’re from the bakery down the street that he loves, and they’re a little cold, which must mean they’ve been sitting there for a while. Did Erik get them earlier? he wonders. The bed has been empty since five am, when Erik slipped out silently for his run.

Bemused, he picks up the bag and goes to fetch his suitcase, only to find it’s already been carried to the door for him. As he performs last-minute checks to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, Erik returns, sweaty and panting, his hair damp from what looks like a light drizzle.

“Hey,” he says when he comes through the door, pulling his earphones out and setting his iPod on the hallway table. “Are you leaving soon?”

“Oh, so we’re speaking again, are we?” Charles asks snidely.

Erik’s face twists. For a second, it looks as if he’s about to snap back. Then he just shakes his head, mutters, “Never mind,” and pushes past him.

Cursing his mouth, Charles reaches out to grab his arm. “Erik. Wait. I’m sorry.” Taking a breath, he musters up a little smile and asks, “Did you buy those bagels this morning?”

“Yeah.” Erik shrugs, his eyes meeting Charles’ briefly and then skimming away. “I didn’t want you to leave on an empty stomach. You know how airport food is.”

Charles’ smile widens tentatively. He slides his touch down from Erik’s arm to his hand and gives it a squeeze. “Thank you.”

Erik shrugs again. “It’s nothing really. You should…” He glances at the door. “You should get going. Don’t want to be late for your flight.”

“Yeah.”

They stand there awkwardly for another moment before Erik finally offers, “Do you want me to drive you to the airport? So you wouldn’t have to leave your car there?”

“It’s okay, Moira’s taking me. But…thanks.”

There’s another uncomfortable pause. Then Erik squeezes his hand back and says, “I’ll see you when you get back.”

Charles nods and pulls on his coat. “See you.”

They arrive at JFK at 7:30, and Moira bids him goodbye at the doors.

“Try to have some fun, will you?” she asks, leaning across the center console to buss him on the cheek. “You’ve looked really stressed these last couple of days. You sure you’re okay with going?”

“I’ll be fine. Say hello to your parents for me. And don’t forget your promise about all those cheesesteaks.”

“Cross my heart,” she calls as he climbs out of her car and collects his suitcase from the trunk. Then, with one last wave, she pulls off the curb and he heads into the airport, suitcase trundling after him.

When he was younger, he used to hate airports. He’d hated any crowded places really, mostly because they wreaked havoc on his telepathy. The first time his parents had tried to take him on a vacation to Florida, he’d been huddled in the airport bathroom clutching his head for so long they nearly missed the flight. They’d seldom traveled by plane after that, and by the time he’d developed enough control to minimize the problems of large crowds, his father had already passed away, leaving his mother with little inclination to travel at all.

He only has good memories of airports now. His first venture into semi-public bathroom sex had been with Erik in one of the bathrooms at LaGuardia, where he’d had to blur the minds of two men who’d come in while Erik had been giving him an absolutely filthy blowjob in one of the stalls. Their honeymoon had been spent pent up in JFK after a howling snowstorm had grounded all flights. They’d decided to make the best of it and had spent most of the day running around to all the different stalls and stores and buying key chains and playing cards and the most exotic foods they could find on the menus. Then they’d bought one of those generic harlequin books from a stand beside a Starbucks and settled on the hard airport benches to read it. They’d snickered so loudly at the sex scenes that some of the other passengers, who were noticeably less cheerful about being stuck in an airport, had openly glared at them, but they hadn’t cared one bit.

That first day of their honeymoon had been one of the best of his life. Now it’s hard to remember the giggling, perpetually-smiling newlyweds they used to be. When had they changed? When did smiles between them start to become rarer, and laughs rarer still? There wasn’t any life-changing tragedy that had redirected their priorities and dulled their sense of joy and spontaneity. But they just…grew up, he supposes.

The thought is depressing. With a sigh, he leaves his suitcase at the baggage check-in desk and goes to find his gate.

A little over two hours later, they’re landing at Pearson International. By the time he’s gotten through customs and retrieved his baggage, it’s nearly noon and he’s hungry again, having eaten the bagels at the airport before the flight. Moira told him her friend from the university is meeting him at the airport, so he pulls his suitcase on through the terminals to where a crowd is waiting to greet incoming passengers.

After laying eyes on the crowd, he wishes immediately he’d remembered to ask Moira what her friend looks like, but it doesn’t turn out to be a problem: before he can even start to worry, a man pushes his way to the front of the crowd and steps out in front of him so he’s forced to stop.

“Professor Xavier?” the man asks gruffly. He’s short, shorter than Charles is, but he’s heavily muscled and looks as if he could toss Charles across the terminal without breaking a sweat.

“Er, yes,” he says, transferring his suitcase to his left hand so he can offer a handshake. “I’m Charles. You must Moira’s friend.”

“Logan,” the man tells him. “You ready to go?”

“Um.” He checks to make sure his passport is tucked into his coat pocket and that he has the hotel receipt. “Yeah.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

Logan leads him out to a beat-up gray car and waits until he puts his suitcase into the trunk and climbs into the passenger seat before starting it up. As he pulls out, he asks, “Moira tell you about the schedule?”

“Briefly, yes. She also gave me a pamphlet but I haven’t really looked at it.”

“Basically, you’re going to be heading up the seminar tomorrow morning and afternoon. It starts at 10, breaks at 12:30 for lunch, and then resumes at 2. Your day will be done by 4, unless you stay much longer for Q&A and stuff. There’ll be other speakers, too, so you can hang around and participate or you can leave if you want. Toronto’s got plenty of attractions for whatever you want to do.”

“Are you a professor at the university then?”

Logan barks out a laugh. “Do I look like a professor? Well, I’m part-time. Sorta. I teach art twice a week. But I’m doing this ’cause I’m involved with MIO. That’s the mutant group on campus. I’m a co-sponsor.”

Charles’ interest sharpens. “Are you a mutant?”

Logan shoots him a toothy grin and holds out his fist. As Charles watches, three metal claws push out from his knuckles, each curving out as long as kitchen knives. Fascinated, Charles reaches out and, when Logan doesn’t protest, touches the tip of the leftmost claw. Even that much contact is nearly enough to draw blood, and he yanks back his hand with a hiss.

“Sharp,” Logan warns, his smile turning feral. The claws disappear so rapidly Charles barely sees them retract. “You’re a mutant, too, right? Moira said.”

Charles nods and gestures at his head. “Telepath.”

Sometimes the revelation of his powers is met with visible recoiling and suspicion, sometimes with an uncomfortable level of interest. Logan barely even takes his eyes off the road, just nods and says, “Cool,” like he runs across telepaths every day. It’s refreshing, to say the least, and Charles finds himself smiling as they wind on through the downtown traffic.

Logan drops him off at a Holiday Inn and tells him that he’ll be by to take him over to the university at 8:30 the next morning. Charles thanks him, declines his help with the suitcase, and heads into the hotel.

Checking in takes barely any time at all, and before long, he’s situated in a relatively spacious room on the eighth floor with one giant king bed and a long desk sitting right by the window with a TV on its right side. After exploring the closet and the bathroom, he leaves his suitcase at the food of the bed and goes to peer out the window, taking a few minutes to watch cars wind past the building. Then he flops back onto the bed and turns on the TV to a rerun of American Idol, which, predictably enough, has him fast asleep in under ten minutes.

 

*

 

Logan takes him to the Chestnut Residence and Conference Centre the next morning and, once he’s been signed in and given a badge, leads him upstairs to a sizeable ballroom on the second floor that’s filled with dozens of neat rows of chairs. There are already some people present, and one of them detaches herself from a small group clustered by a table of refreshments on the side and comes up to them with a smile.

“Logan,” she greets cheerily. She barely waits for Logan to grunt in acknowledgment before she thrusts her hand out to Charles. “You must be Professor Xavier. I’m Delia Martin, professor of genetics here and the seminar coordinator. We’re sorry Professor MacTaggert couldn’t come, but we’re glad you’re here! I see you’ve already gotten signed in and everything—good, good. I’m glad you’re here early, too, because if you have any multimedia you’d like to use, we want to get that set up now to try to minimize technical difficulties later. You’re on second in the program, so we’ve got some time to work out the kinks if there are any, but I hope you’ll be okay if the technology fails us after all, since it’s prone to do that. Come on, I’ll give you a quick tour and we’ll get started.”

She whisks him out of Logan’s care before Charles can even say goodbye and takes him on a whirlwind tour of the ballroom that involves rapid introductions of a dozen or so people whose names Charles forgets almost instantly. Then Ms. Martin— _“Delia_ , call me Delia, please”—pulls him over to the computer and has him test out the PowerPoint he’s brought along, try on the mike, and turn the projector on and off a couple of times. Luckily, everything seems to be in working order, and they’re ready to go by 9:15, which gives Charles plenty of time to amble over to the refreshments and grab himself some tea and a cookie.

“So,” Delia says brightly, appearing at his elbow again within minutes, “Professor MacTaggert had family business to attend to, is that right?”

Charles swallows a bite of the cookie—which has, disappointingly enough, turned out to be raisin instead of chocolate chip—and answers, “Yes, she had to go home to her parents. Scheduling conflict, I believe.”

“That’s really too bad,” Delia tuts. “But it’s a relief she found someone to replace her. We would have had an awful gap in the schedule if you hadn’t come. Thank you so much for doing this on such short notice.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Charles tells her sincerely.

She drifts away briefly to take a napkin and a cookie from the table and then returns to his side. “So tell me a little about yourself, Professor. Usually we have our guest lecturers give a little bio in the event programs, but obviously you were a last-minute addition.”

“Well,” Charles says, sipping at the tea to buy time to gather his thoughts. “I grew up in New York and earned my undergraduate degree at Harvard. Then I bounced from Oxford to Columbia, and after I got my last PhD, I stayed on at Columbia as a genetics professor. I also teach a basic mutant studies class but only on semesters when I’m not doing my own research.”

“That’s very impressive,” Delia remarks, eyes wide. “Especially given how young you are.”

Charles laughs. “Trust me, I’m older than I look.” He’s even fairly certain he’s started to find gray streaks in his hair.

She smiles again and shifts a little bit closer, her sleeve nearly brushing his. “And where did you get that _lovely_ accent?”

Too late, he realizes that she’s flirting with him. It’s been so long since anyone has even looked his way that it catches him completely off-guard. He has no idea if she hasn’t noticed his wedding ring or if she’s just ignoring it, but for a second, he simply stares at her, his mouth hanging open.

He’s saved by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket. “Excuse me,” he stammers, backing away. “I’ve got to take this.”

It’s not a call, it’s a text. His heart gives a funny little leap when he sees it’s from Erik, and he opens it with a swipe of his finger.

_Good luck today. You’ll do great._

He takes a breath. That was what Erik always used to say to him in his early days of professorship and lecturing, back when he’d been nervous and uncomfortable in front of crowds. He’d practice his lectures on Erik beforehand and Erik would always roll his eyes and say, “You’re worrying for nothing, you’ll be fine,” but Charles would still fret right up until class time, when he’d pull out his phone and more often than not find a text from Erik there wishing him luck.

God, it’s been so long since they’ve given each other little reassurances like this that this six-word text actually lifts his mood. When he takes the podium two hours later, his voice and heart are perfectly steady.

The day passes rapidly in a blur of thoroughly absorbing discussions that range from the scientific basis of mutations to social ramifications of the growing emergence of mutants around the world. When the other experts present their in-depth research and then open the floor to questions, Charles has to fight not to raise his hand every minute to keep from stealing time from the students in the audience who have their own queries. When they take breaks between lectures, he cruises around through the crowds to find the most interesting speakers and chats with them as briefly or as extensively as their time allows. As usual, his telepathy is a big talking point in every conversation he engages in, but everyone who asks him about it is outstandingly considerate and polite.

By four o’clock, he’s tired but exhilarated from engaging with so many young, curious minds and with some of his peers in the field. He’s almost loath to leave but after he can’t linger any longer, he says goodbye to Delia, meets Logan at the doors, and returns to the hotel.

It’s only 5:40 when he settles back into his room, so after a bit of rest, he decides to venture out into the city.

Toronto is an odd city that feels at times like a collection of villages knitted together, erupting every once in a while into tall, glimmering towers of metal and steel. He wanders down Yonge Street where the crowd sweeps him into the strange florescence of Dundas Square. People are bustling every which way in the late rush-hour traffic, buskers hammering on plastic drums and people waving pamphlets about God his face as he maneuvers through the crush. He escapes down a side street, the clamour of the crowd nearly unbearable after a day under the weight of eager and excitable student minds, and wanders through the relatively quiet campus of the local art college, stopping to get a coffee to warm his hands as the sun sets and the late March cool sets in.

It’s dark and he’s finished his coffee when he ends up on a relatively busy street, this one populated by a string of lit up storefronts and a crowd of young people stumbling and flushed with high spirits. He wanders down the sidewalk, peering in the windows on either side. It’s an odd blend of vintage clothing stores and sports bars and bookshops, broken here and there by a man in black under multicolored lights acting as security for some unseen night club.

In one window a drag queen stands under a spotlight and sings Carol King, waving elegantly at him when she catches sight of him gawking from the pavement. On a whim he heads inside. The interior is dark wood and brass fixtures, red lanterns hanging low over the tables and above the bar, a bizarre merging of traditional pub and nightclub. He settles himself in at the bar and orders a pint, applauds when the singer finishes her set and the DJ clicks over to more mainstream music, the noise of the crowd swelling as people shout to be heard.

He hasn’t been to a bar in ages. It’s strange how far removed from his teenage years and college years he feels now. Back then, he and Erik had bar-hopped as a hobby, out and about with friends almost every Friday night and sometimes Saturday as well. They’d had to find ways to relieve the academic stress somehow, and that release had taken the form of attending the wildest parties they could find and trying not to puke up their guts the next morning. Admittedly, they’d been reckless and cavalier and more than a little troublemaking but Charles can’t remember ever having so much fun. Even the hangovers had been entertaining in hindsight, if only due to the camaraderie of being horribly sick with friends.

After they’d left their college days behind, they’d still hung out at bars from time to time for a casual drink. Of course, that had been before he’d received his research grant and Erik had been promoted to junior partner at his firm. Now he can’t remember the last time they went out, alone or with company.

They would have gone out Saturday, he supposes, if he weren’t here. He tries not to feel guilty about it, but he does anyway.

Bad timing, really, that’s their problem. They used to be so in sync, used to be able to read each other with a look. Maybe they just got so used to not talking that they don’t know how to really communicate anymore, don’t really know where to begin.

With a sigh, he works his way through the pint and orders another, listlessly watching the crowd grind and flow on the dance floor by the stage. Despite the fact that he’s only been here for under twenty minutes, his head is already starting to pound with the combined effects of the thumping music and the swell of minds against his mental shields. A couple shoves in next to him against the bar, laughing between kisses as they gesture for two beers. They’re so lost in each other that they barely notice that they’re practically grinding in Charles’ lap, lust and exhilaration fairly pouring off of them in a suffocating smog. Grimacing, he leaves money on the bar and slips out of his seat.

In spite of the headache, he can’t help but drift a little closer to the dance floor, the music pumping like a heady drug through his veins. Dancing never fails to lift his mood, so he decides to linger for just a little while, just ten minutes and he’ll head back to his hotel.

An hour and a half later, he’s sweating through his shirt, panting heavily, and laughing as he pours his third pint down his throat, thirsty as hell and overheated and drunk not only on alcohol but on the intoxicating energy of the bar. His headache hasn’t receded but at least it’s throbbing in time with the music and the alcohol has dulled it slightly. Even better, he feels young and refreshed again, wildly spirited and out for no other reason than to have fun. It’s been so long since he’s done anything just for fun, just for himself, and to toss all responsibility out the window and just be _mindless_ for a couple of hours is more glorious than he could have imagined.

Another pint goes down and he can barely remember why the hell he doesn’t get out like this more often, because he’s never felt more alive than right at that moment, never felt more flushed and happy and _desirable._ Because it’s obvious, with his telepathy and without, that people are staring, that people are _wanting,_ and their craving worms under his skin like a tantalizing drug and he feels beautiful. It’s not a surprise when one of them finally works up the courage to approach him, not a shock when the man puts his hands on Charles’ waist to keep them close because the dance floor is an organic, flowing beast that would tear them apart if they weren’t careful, and Charles twists in his arms to face him and smiles brilliantly at the stranger. His face is half-hidden in the uneven lighting but his mind is clear and it’s saying, _Let’s dance._

Charles sees himself through the man’s eyes, briefly: cheeks flushed red, hair curling damp on his forehead with sweat, red lips wet with beer, teeth a flash of white in the darkness around a wide, inviting smile. He sees the way his body curves with the music, sees the man’s admiration as Charles moves perfectly to the beat, lean and quick and joyful. Dancing is fun, but dancing with partners is better, so Charles grabs his wrist and leads him into the swell of music, into a rising crescendo of movement.

Eventually, nearly four songs later, they’re both sweating and exhausted and when his dance partner points to the bar, Charles is only too glad to follow.

“Cheers,” Charles says merrily once they receive their drinks.

“Cheers,” the man replies, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He downs half his glass in one gulp and then slams it back down on the bar, panting. “Man. You’ve got stamina, I’ll give you that.”

Charles laughs. “Believe me, I’ll be feeling this tomorrow. Extensively.”

They remain propped against the bar for another few minutes, catching their breath. Someone nearby lights up a cigarette, and Charles inhales the smoke as it drifts past entirely without meaning to, prompting a coughing fit that leaves his eyes watery and his throat burning.

“Hey,” his dance partner says, holding his arm. “You wanna get some fresh air?”

His head is starting to spin with all the alcohol and the whirling energy of the place anyway, so Charles nods gratefully. “Yeah, sounds good.”

They shove through the crowd to the door and then they’re bursting out into the cold night air, the music going muffled behind them as the bar’s door swings shut. Charles breathes in deep to clear his lungs and then tucks his hands into his pockets to warm them.

“Darren,” the other man offers finally, holding out his hand.

Charles takes it. “Charles.”

Darren smiles, a bit self-consciously. He starts to say something and then stops. It’s hard to tell since his cheeks are already ruddy from both the dancing and the cold, but Charles doesn’t think he’s imagining the blush.

“Hey, look,” Darren says finally, blowing out a long breath, “I’m not sure if you want…if you even do this sort of thing but…I mean, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to—to maybe buy you a drink sometime?”

His question takes a long moment to process and when his meaning finally clicks, Charles just gapes at him for a solid half minute, surprise stalling any response in his throat. At his silence, Darren backtracks rapidly, his eyes dropping to the ground. “You don’t have to, of course. I just thought…you know, I thought we had a connection back there, and if you wanted to get my number maybe we could meet up sometime and—and do something. But it’s totally up to you, really…” His voice dies out and a great swell of embarrassment washes through him and he says, “You know what, never mind. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Darren,” Charles manages finally. “It’s not you. It’s just—” He pulls his left hand out of his pocket. “I’m married.”

Darren’s eyes fly open wide. “Oh shit. Oh fuck, man I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t see—shit.”

He’s so horrified that Charles almost laughs. “It’s okay, it was an honest mistake. I don’t mind. To be honest, I’m very flattered you asked. But I’m afraid it’s going to have to be a no.”

Darren’s crimson now with mortification, and he can’t seem to look anywhere near Charles’ face again. Charles says gently, “Why don’t you go back inside? I’m sure there are plenty of other single guys in there who’d be delighted if you asked them.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess so. But um…” He glances down the street. “You okay by yourself?”

“It’s a short walk to my hotel,” Charles assures him. “But thanks. Go have fun.”

“Um…well, nice to meet you then. Have a good night.” Darren walks back to the door of the bar and then stops and turns with his hand on the handle. “You’re a great dancer, by the way.”

The praise is almost more warming than the beer. Smiling, Charles calls back, “You’re not too bad yourself,” and watches until Darren disappears back inside.

The walk back to his hotel is a little fuzzy, and he gets lost twice before finding a familiar landmark and finally stumbling upon the entryway to the Holiday Inn. Inside, he takes the elevator up to the eighth floor and fumbles with his keycard for a good couple of minutes before managing to get the door open. If only Erik were here, he muses a bit sulkily. He’d have the door open in a heartbeat.

Tossing his things down on the armchair by the window, he digs clean clothes out of his suitcase and heads to the bathroom. His clothes are still uncomfortably damp from sweat and he has to peel them off his skin before getting into the shower and turning the water on full. The first cool blast makes him shiver and sobers him up a bit, bringing back some lucidity.

With the lucidity comes the reminder that the whole purpose of this trip is to get space and force himself to think rationally about his whole relationship, and he closes his eyes as he presses his forehead against the tile. Christ. What is he doing? Going out to a bar on his own, getting half drunk and dancing with strangers like he’s eighteen again and desperate for the party. It was fun, he can’t deny that. But it was _lonely_ , too, and he hadn’t realized it then but he realizes it now: he misses Erik with a fierceness that _hurts_. Erik hadn’t ever danced much, hadn’t ever danced that well, but he’d joined Charles on the dance floor of any bar or party they ever went to, and he’d fetched them drinks when Charles was thirsty and he’d gone home with Charles afterwards, his arm curled comfortably around Charles’ shoulders as they meandered down the street together, Charles’ face pressed into the crook of Erik’s shoulder as he laughed. And they’d get home and strip off and sometimes have drunken sex and sometimes just collapse into bed and curl around one another and fall asleep like that and wake up having not moved at all, except to draw closer together.

Now, the hotel room seems terribly empty and silent. It’s just him and the prospect of an aching hangover when he wakes, and he wants Erik so badly he almost has to sit down and breathe between his knees to keep his head from spinning.

What’s _happened_ to them? He has no idea how they’ve lost so much of what they once had, but one thing he does know is that they can’t keep going on like they’ve been doing. They can’t keep living like this, hardly even amiable roommates, when they once promised each other to be so much more.

Once he’s clean, he shuts off the water and dries himself off slowly. When he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink, he stops and stares into bloodshot blue eyes and a face that looks even more exhausted than he feels. He needs a shave, a long drink of water, and a good night’s sleep. Seeing as how he’s forgotten his razor at home, the first is just going to have to wait. But there’s bottled water in the refrigerator that quenches some of his thirst, and then he collapses into bed, barely managing to drag himself under the covers before crashing.

 

*

 

In the morning, his tongue tastes like sawdust in his mouth, and his head throbs. Only the obligation of having to present another section of his research at ten-thirty gets him up out of bed before ten o’clock. With the curtains drawn, nothing but a thin slit of early morning sunlight slips through the window, so he stumbles around in the darkness for a little while until he remembers the bedside lamp, which switches on with difficulty. Rubbing at his temples, he sits half-naked on the edge of the bed and drinks half a bottle of water before going to find something adequate to wear.

After he does up his tie and combs his hair into some semblance of order, he checks his watch. 9:14. Plenty of time to spare.

After a minute of deliberation, he fishes his phone out of his bag and turns it on. A low battery alert flashes on the screen, but that’s not what catches his eye: he has a text message from Erik, sent at 12:37 am.

 _Good night,_ is all it says, but even that is more than expected. They used to text each other all the time when they were apart, but lately they’ve fallen out of the habit. He’d forgotten the simple thrill of seeing Erik’s name on his phone.

Sitting back down, he swipes his finger to open a call and it isn’t until Erik answers with a clearly weary “Hello?” that he realizes it might be a bad time.

“Sorry,” he says, “am I interrupting anything?”

“No, no, go ahead.”

“Hi. Good morning. Um. I just wanted to call and see how you were doing.”

“I’m alright. You?”

“Good, good. Well. I’ve got a bit of a headache. Wish you were here.”

He winces. _Stupid! He already thinks you’re incompetent and needy and only want him around for the favors he does you._

“Well,” he backtracks rapidly, “not that I’d want to—to take you away from your work. You’re probably busy.”

To his surprise, Erik says, “No, I wish I were with you, too. Beats having to scan the same document twenty times in a row trying to get it to turn out right, and that’s _after_ the interns fucked it up and almost broke the machine.”

There’s enough dry amusement in his voice that he doesn’t sound entirely irate, so Charles chances a laugh. “That sounds difficult.”

“It is. And frustrating.”

“Mm.”

There’s a bit of a pause, and then Erik says slowly, “I could tell you about it? If you had time?”

“Oh! Of course. Yeah, I’m…I’m perfectly free.”

He misses the first few words as Erik continues because he’s too busy flushing with sudden, dizzying hope. Erik is reaching out to him. Erik’s _trying._

The next hour is spent lying on his belly on the bed giggling into the phone like he’s a teenager again trying to hold a conversation with his crush. Erik vents his frustration in the most colorful, dramatic terms, and Charles just listens. He’d forgotten how pleasant it can be to just _listen_ to Erik’s stories, without trying to multi-task, without grading papers while nodding absently along, without tuning Erik out because he’s too tired to pay attention. Even annoyed, Erik has a rich, deep voice that seems to seep through the air and sink deep into Charles’ skin like a good, warm bath, comfortable and lulling.

A knock on the door jerks him out of his half-doze, and he bolts up. A questing mental finger reveals Logan on the other side of the door. He doesn’t even need to glance at the clock to realize he’s completely lost track of time. “Oh…shit. Erik, I’m sorry, but I’m late. I’ve got to go.”

Erik’s smile is audible. “Late to your own presentation, Professor? Making good impressions, I see.”

“Shut up,” Charles retorts affectionately. “I’ll…I’ll call you later? Or if you’re busy, you can call me?”

“Yeah, I’ve got some work to do, but I’ll call you before you sleep.”

“Okay. Excellent. Okay, bye.”

“Hey, Charles?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

Halfway off the bed, Charles freezes. His breath stalls in his throat, and his heart gives a painful squeeze. “I miss you, too,” he says when he can speak. _I’ve missed you so goddamn much_.

He’s not sure if Erik gets his entire meaning, but there’s no time to elaborate; Logan calls out, “Professor, you in there? We’re running ten minutes behind, come on.”

“Coming!” Charles calls back. To Erik, he says, “Bye,” and doesn’t wait for a reply before rocketing out the door.

 

*

 

He slips into academic mode as soon as he reaches campus and doesn’t emerge from it until Logan drops him back at his hotel at almost nine. They’d gone out to dinner with a couple of the other presenters and a handful of interested students, and Charles had spent the whole night in fascination with a girl who could phase through solid objects and another who could create rain with barely a wave of her hands. They’d exchanged contact information in case they were ever in New York or he was ever back in Canada before they’d parted ways.

When he gets back to his room, his mind immediately shifts gears and with a leap of his heart, he remembers Erik’s promise to call him tonight. Hurriedly, he plugs in his phone, which had died partway through the morning, and waits until it turns on to check his messages.

No texts or messages, but that’s alright. The night’s still young.

He uses the room’s kettle to boil some water and fixes himself a cup of tea with the teabags he’d packed in his suitcase. Then, after making sure the volume on his phone is set as high as it can go, he settles down in bed, stretches his legs out in front of him, and switches on the TV.

The first thing on is the latter half of hockey game, which he watches with only a minimal understanding of what’s going on. Hockey has always been more Erik’s thing, just as football is Charles’. Maybe, he muses as he watches one player slam against another with bone-crunching force, he and Erik can find some time to get up to Canada together sometime. He’s pretty sure Canada’s got good hockey to see, and it would be fun to go together. He makes a mental note to mention it to Erik when he calls. Summer would be a good time to go, since he’ll have at least a few weeks of free time then. Or does hockey season end before summer? he wonders. He’ll have to look it up.

After the game is over, he flips through the channels, skips past late-night soap operas and news, and finally settles on an ongoing CSI marathon. Despite his determination to wait up, he already feels himself getting drowsy halfway through the episode, his eyelids drooping and his limbs growing progressively heavier. With a yawn, he gets up to brush his teeth and change into his pajamas before checking on his phone. No messages still, but it’s fully-charged so he carries it back to bed with him and sets it on the nightstand.

Eleven o’clock comes and passes. He passes another episode poking through the plot in search of holes and finds four. When he checks his phone at midnight exactly, there’s still nothing.

Well, he reasons, it’s still early yet for Erik. Erik’s something of a night owl, and when he’s working, he’s prone to losing track of time. Charles debates calling Erik himself, but after a few moments of deliberation, he decides he doesn’t want to risk interrupting Erik in the middle of something important. So he puts his phone back where it was next to the alarm clock and settles in sleepily for more CSI.

He’s not sure when he drifts off, but the next thing he’s aware of, the alarm clock is blaring out annoyingly in his ear. With a groan, he gropes for the snooze button and then blearily blinks his eyes open. When he tries to sit up, pain lances through his back and neck, and he stills instantly with a stifled whimper.

He’d fallen asleep half slumped over and he’s clearly paying for it now. Slowly, he eases himself up into a sitting position and then works his neck back and forth, trying to clear up as much of the stiffness as he can. When he manages to stand up, his back pops painfully and he stands there for a moment twisting back and forth to try to loosen up his cramped muscles.

 _Getting old_ , he thinks good-humoredly. He turns to reach for his watch on the nightstand and then freezes when his fingers pass over his phone.

Erik. Erik’s call. Shit.

Hurriedly, he picks up his phone and unlocks the screen, finger jabbing at his inbox and—

There’s nothing. No missed call, no text, no voicemail. It takes him a moment to realize what this means, and when he does, he can’t stop the terrible wrench of disappointment that seems to pull his stomach out through his throat.

Erik didn’t call. Erik hadn’t even thought to text, and it shouldn’t be that big a deal but Charles had thought they were reaching out to one another, that they were starting to work their way back to somewhere good again, and to have already taken a step back when Charles had felt like they were finally going forward—it feels nothing less than failure.

 _Don’t be so dramatic_ , he tells himself. _Erik could have just forgotten. He’s busy_. And anyway Charles himself had fallen asleep, and there had been no guarantee he’d have woken up at the sound of his ringtone. It’s just a fucking goodnight call. He shouldn’t get so worked up about it. He’s being absolutely silly.

A bit annoyed at himself, he gets dressed and ready to leave by 8:30, and when Logan arrives at 8:45 to pick him up for the convention’s closing remarks, he turns his phone off before he slips it into his pocket and tries to put Erik out of his mind.

 

*

 

Moira picks him up from the airport at three in afternoon and takes him out to a late lunch, where he fills her in on all the conference details while she tells him all about her weekend at the cabin with her parents, who are apparently convinced she’s going to die a spinster. Such negativity has caused her to move up her timetable with Sean, which means, she explains solemnly, she’s going to have to launch the operation as soon as the end of this week. “The operation” consists of drinks next Friday night and a movie.

“Nothing complicated,” Moira tells him as she sips at her iced tea. “Don’t want to scare him off with anything fancy. He’s too chill for upscale restaurants on a first date, I think. But I don’t want to go alone. You and Erik should come, too. It can be a double date.”

Charles blinks at her. “Why?”

“Because,” she harrumphs, stealing a French fry off his plate. “Because it’s easier when there are others. More comfortable. And if the date’s an absolute disaster, I can count on you to extract me without much fuss.”

“ _Extract you_ ,” Charles repeats, amused. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you ever actually left the army.”

“I didn’t,” Moira agrees. “The classroom is just a different battlefield.”

She drops him off back at his house only after soliciting a promise to at least ask Erik about next Friday. He leans across the center console to give her a quick kiss on the cheek and then collects his suitcase and waves to her as she pulls off down the street.

A quick mental scan of the house as he unlocks the door shows no one in the house. How utterly unsurprising. With a sigh, he shuts the door again behind him, drags his suitcase to the bedroom, and flops facedown tiredly onto the bed.

The brief rest turns into a three-hour nap, and when he wakes up, the first thing he does is check the house for Erik’s presence, then his phone for messages. Still nothing.

Rubbing his eyes wearily, he glances at the clock on the bedside table, and his eyes snag on the photo next to it. In it, he and Erik are standing at the lip of the Grand Canyon, his arm wrapped around Erik’s waist, Erik’s arm around his shoulders. They’re both smiling—laughing more like it, open-mouthed and gleeful. He remembers the moment with pinpoint clarity: they had driven to the Grand Canyon on a road trip during the spring break of their senior year, and they’d asked a passerby to snap their photo. They’d had to shuffle through quickly, since there were several other people waiting to take the vantage point they had chosen. But the camera had kept malfunctioning, and it wasn’t until several minutes had passed that Charles realized Erik was jamming the camera’s mechanism so that they could stand there a little longer, because he’d noticed how much Charles had liked the view. When Charles had caught on, he had begun to laugh, so exceedingly charmed that he couldn’t manage to compose himself for a proper photo, and Erik had let the camera go in that one perfect moment that had frozen their helpless snickering on film forever.

Abruptly, powerfully angry, he gets up and storms from the bedroom to the living room. They’d had something. They’d had something incredible and it feels like Charles is the only one who still cares about that anymore and it makes him _furious._ He’s not sure where the new determination that gushes up within him comes from, but he welcomes it, lets it dull the ache of his heart and fill him with new, unexpected energy.

He’ll be damned if he’s going to let this marriage go without fighting for it at all.

 

*

 

Charles is asleep when Erik gets home, but he stirs from bed when Erik slides in behind him. He must make some sort of noise because Erik whispers, “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Mm,” Charles mumbles, turning to face him. Erik’s only a silhouette in the darkness. “Did you just come in?”

“Yeah. Late night again. Did you get home okay?”

“Yeah, Moira picked me up.”

“That’s good.”

There’s a bit of rustling as Erik gets settled, his warmth filling the emptiness just beside Charles but not quite touching. He’s compacted himself into his side, just as Charles has on his own half of the bed. The little sliver of space between them is miniscule but it suddenly feels cavernous.

He touches Erik’s mind and finds it weary and almost already asleep but not particularly prickly. Encouraged, he rolls over and closes the space between them, laying his head against Erik’s shoulder and wrapping his arm around Erik’s belly. At his touch, Erik stiffens but doesn’t pull away. After a moment, he even slips his arm under Charles’ shoulders to draw him closer.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday,” he says into the silence. “I got caught up.”

“It’s okay,” Charles murmurs. “I figured as much. Go to sleep.”

 

*

 

When the alarm goes off at 5:30 am as usual, Erik shuts it off with a flick of his fingers and carefully shifts Charles’ arm off him so he can slide out of bed and get ready for his morning run. But this morning Charles makes a concerted effort to stay awake as Erik pulls on his shoes, slides his iPod into his pocket, and heads out the door. As soon as Erik’s mind crosses the street, Charles throws back the covers, pulls on a sweatshirt, and pads down the hall to the kitchen. Yawning, he riffles through the cabinets for a suitable pan and then opens the refrigerator. Luckily, Erik’s gone shopping while Charles was in Toronto, so the fridge is at least rudimentarily stocked. He pulls out the egg carton and some milk and sets the kettle to boil while he works.

An hour later, Erik’s mind reappears in Charles’ sphere of awareness, and he just manages to pour a cup of hot coffee and pull a fork out of the drawer before the front door opens. Erik walks in and nearly passes the kitchen entirely, so distracted as he is with his earphones in, but then he seems to realize that the lights are on when they shouldn’t be and backtracks.

“What’s all this?” he asks, eyebrows rising as he takes in Charles in his sweatshirt standing by the stove with a spatula in hand. “Why are you awake?”

“I wanted to make you breakfast before you left,” Charles replies, flipping a pancake over onto the nearby plate that’s already holding a stack of two. “If you don’t have time to sit, I can box it up. I’ve got a bag and everything.”

For a moment, Erik simply seems confused. Then he nods slowly and says, “Yeah. I’ve got to get to the office so a bag would be nice. I’m…I need to take a shower.”

He’s sweating lightly, which must mean it’s cool outside because Erik runs so much he normally sweats horribly. Unless a breeze cools the perspiration on his skin and partially dries him off before he gets back, his shirt is likely to be soaked through, but this morning, it’s only slightly patterned with sweat, a design that’s darkest around his collar and tapers down toward his belly. For all that, he looks delicious. There’s a bead of sweat hanging on his jaw that Charles just wants to swipe away with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he says, dropping his eyes. “It’ll be ready when you’re done.”

Erik nods once and disappears down the hall. A moment later, Charles hears the shower start and imagines, just for a moment, turning the stove off and joining Erik under the hot spray of water. But that would undoubtedly make both of them late, which would ruin the good start he’s made so far this morning. Maybe some other time, he decides as he slides the last of the pancakes off onto a plate and goes in search of the saran wrap.

By the time he finishes wrapping up Erik’s breakfast in a neat little to-go package, it’s time for him to start getting ready to head out himself, so he returns to the bedroom and hunts down a pair of clean slacks and a serviceable shirt. When Erik emerges from the shower, Charles is sliding on his watch and slipping his phone into his pocket.

“I put your breakfast on the counter,” Charles tells him, trying not to overtly stare at the trickle of water that runs down the line of Erik’s stomach and vanishes into the hem of the towel wrapped around his waist. It seems as if it’s been forever since he’s seen Erik fresh from a shower, and the sight of him bare-chested nearly steals Charles’ breath away.

“Um,” he continues, tearing his attention away, “there’s coffee on the counter, too. I’m not sure how hot it still is, but it should be at least warm. I’d better get going.”

He’s almost to the door when his watch tightens around his wrist and tugs hard enough for him to stop. “Hey,” Erik says, walking to him. “Everything okay?”

“What? Of course.” Charles smiles. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” Erik stops in front of him and cocks his head. When his eyes, dark and penetrating, search Charles’, Charles finds it oddly difficult to maintain eye contact.

“Nothing,” Erik says eventually. “Thanks.” He leans over to give Charles a quick peck on the lips and squeezes his shoulder before turning toward the closet. “You should go. Don’t want to be late.”

“Yeah.” Charles pauses in the doorway for a moment, watching as Erik bends over to pick up his socks off the floor, giving Charles a spectacular view of his arse. When Erik tilts a look over his shoulder, Charles blushes and jerks his thumb out the door. “I’ll just—I’m going to go.”

They’re married, for fuck’s sake. They’ve been married for three years, and they dated for four years before that. Why is he suddenly so embarrassingly _shy?_

He grabs his briefcase from the study and then heads out the door.

Erik’s kiss, brief as it was, burns on his mouth for the rest of the morning.

 

*

 

He manages to drag himself out of bed before 6 am for the rest of the week to make breakfast while Erik’s running, and on the nights Erik comes home early enough, he has dinner already made or ordered from their usual takeout places. It’s a little tiring—he’s not a morning person in the slightest and getting up an hour earlier than usual to drowsily shuffle around in the kitchen is something of a struggle—but it’s actually quite rewarding. Waking up earlier makes him feel more productive than usual, and he’s gotten some grading done in the mornings while breakfast is on the stove. Plus, being able to watch the sun rise from the kitchen window is rather nice.

More importantly, Erik’s mind has been warming over the last few days, hearteningly enough. His thoughts are less and less often the roiling mass of impatience and weary irritation that Charles has become accustomed to, and once or twice, Erik even seems something close to content. He’s still gone most hours of the day, but when Charles busies himself with journals and papers and lab hours, it’s easier to forget how often the house is empty.

On Friday, his classes don’t start until 12:30, so he calls Erik’s office at 10:30 and gets a harried-sounding secretary who informs him that yes, Mr. Lehnsherr is in the office and no, it doesn’t appear that he has any lunch commitments today. She asks if Charles wants to leave a message, but Charles says no and thanks her before hanging up and going to collect his keys.

It’s a short drive to the deli he prefers. Alex is behind the counter when he arrives and his eyes light up as Charles steps through the door. “Hey, Prof! Long time no see!”

“Alex,” Charles greets warmly, letting the door swing shut with a jingle behind him. “I’ve been busy.”

“No friends today?”

“No, it’s just me.” He steps over to examine the ingredients laid out neatly behind the display glass and pokes his finger at the sticker by the counter that proclaims SPECIAL! in bolded yellow letters. “How’s the special, on a scale of 1 to 10?”

“Eight,” Alex replies promptly, pulling on a pair of serving gloves. “Do you want that or the usual?”

Charles studies the picture of the special on the menu for a moment before deciding, “Let me get a special then and the kosher option, plus a lemonade.”

“Sure thing.” As Alex moves retrieves the bread from the oven behind him, he says casually, “The next time you come, you should bring that TA of yours again.”

“Hmm? Hank?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” At Charles’ knowing glance, Alex says defensively, “He tipped well, that’s all. It’s nice to get generous customers.”

“Oh, of course, of course.”

He’d brought Hank along with him for lunch after a morning class once and Hank had fumbled out twenty dollars at the register for a six-dollar sandwich. Alex had handed him back the change but Hank had kept dropping the coins in a vain bid to juggle his sandwich and the money, and finally, blushing furiously, he’d simply stammered out, “Keep the change,” and staggered off to the table where Charles had been watching, deeply amused. Afterwards, he’d asked Charles if the guy behind the counter had seemed…unusually _friendly_ , and Charles had laughed and told him that the next time they went, writing his phone number on a napkin and slipping it across the counter might be a good idea.

They hadn’t returned since. Charles had just gotten so bogged down with work and Hank had had so many of his own school matters to attend to that they hadn’t been able to find time in the last few weeks to even grab a leisurely coffee together, let alone lunch. Charles had wondered once or twice if Hank had ever plucked up the courage to drop by the deli again on his own, but apparently he hasn’t.

“I’ll bring him around,” Charles promises as Alex rings up the total. “He’s quite fond of museums. I’d recommend the Museum of Natural History, if you’ve got time.”

Alex flushes. “Um, thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Charles leaves him with a tip and a jovial goodbye. He turns the radio in the car on to the most invigorating music he can find and sings the whole fifteen minutes to Erik’s office. By the time he gets into the elevator of Erik’s building, he’s feeling relatively light-hearted and spirited. A good mood to meet Erik with, he thinks cheerily as he steps out onto the 32nd floor, where dark, raised letters on the wall inform him that this is WORTHINGTON & PLATT.

The placard is must be new—he can’t remember it being there the last time he visited. And it _has_ been some time since he’s come by, now that he thinks about it. Probably a few months at least.

When he arrives at the front desk, the secretary is a girl he doesn’t recognize, which only highlights the fact that it’s been far too long since he’s been anywhere near Erik’s workplace. She tells him that Mr. Lehnsherr is working in his office at the moment and that he can’t be disturbed without a prior appointment. Even after Charles flashes his wedding ring, the girl—a Miss Carmen Wright, according to the name placard sitting beside her keyboard—remains adamant that Mr. Lehnsherr remain unbothered.

“Alright,” Charles says pleasantly, when it looks as if she’s about to phone security. “Let me just call him then.”

“His phone calls are routed to me,” Miss Wright remarks, unimpressed.

“Oh, I’m not talking about phones,” Charles tells her as he reaches out and locates Erik’s mind among the buzz of dozens of the others on the floor. Normally, it takes a bit of effort to pinpoint just one mind amidst a large selection of others, but he knows Erik’s mind so intimately that finding it is like recognizing his own. Erik’s office, he finds, hasn’t been moved; it’s still down the hall around the corner to the right, situated perfectly to give an impressive view of the New York skyline. Erik’s mind is whirring within, running a hundred miles an hour. Charles is almost reluctant to interrupt him, so he waits for the slightest of lulls in Erik’s thoughts before interjecting, _Erik?_

Erik straightens immediately. _Charles?_

_Hey. I’m at the front desk. Care to let me in?_

Confusion slows the rushing currents of Erik’s mind. _What are you doing here?_

 _I brought lunch. If you haven’t got time, I’ll just drop it off. But your new secretary won’t let me past without an appointment_. Charles glances down at Miss Wright, whose eyes are narrowed warily. _If you wait a moment longer, I’m fairly certain she’s going to have me dragged out of here and strip-searched._

 _Okay, I’m coming_.

A moment later, Erik appears down the hallway and heads out toward them. Charles doesn’t think he imagines the way Erik’s eyes lighten as he catches sight of Charles standing behind the desk, sandwich bag dangling in hand.

“Carmen,” he says as he nears them.

She swivels around abruptly in her chair. “Mr. Lehnsherr!”

“Thanks for being vigilant,” Erik says, walking over to take Charles’ arm, “but he’s with me.”

“Oh!” The suspicious look disappears immediately. “Should I—Does he need a name badge then…?”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Erik assures her as he propels Charles toward his office.

They pass the cubicles of several associates who are rushing around feverishly with stacks of files in their arms. Charles eyes them and asks, “Busy morning?”

“As always,” Erik answers. As they enter Erik’s spacious office, Erik shuts the door behind them and gestures for Charles to sit anywhere. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Well, I called ahead of time to ask if you had a lunch appointment, and Carmen out there told me you didn’t. So I decided to bring lunch.”

“Are those sandwiches from your deli?”

 _Your deli_. One of these days he’s going to have to bring Erik around so it’ll become _their_ deli. Charles shakes the bag enticingly. “The one and only.”

The stern lines around Erik’s mouth soften. “Thanks. Saves me the trouble of having to leave the office.”

“It saves some poor intern the trouble of having to leave the office, you mean,” Charles corrects wryly as he settles into the chair on the opposite side of the desk and digs one of the sandwiches out of the bag.

Erik actually laughs at that, and the sound is so startling and warm that Charles just stares at him for a moment. When Erik catches him looking, his smile drops away. “What?”

“Nothing,” Charles says, shaking himself out of the daze. “It’s just…been a while since I’ve heard you laugh. That’s all.”

He hopes he isn’t blushing like he’s on a first date all over again. This new self-consciousness is annoying and embarrassing, and he wills Erik not to notice the way his ears heat when their eyes catch.

“Yeah,” Erik says slowly as he accepts his sandwich. “I guess it has been a while.”

Charles eyes the files spread out on the desk, papers scattered from one end to the other with sticky notes posted on nearly every available surface. “Are you busy?” he asks, leaving his own sandwich in the bag. “If you are, I can leave. I should get to campus in half an hour anyway. I don’t want to bother you.”

There’s a slight hesitation as Erik glances down at his computer. Then he says apologetically, “I want you to stay but I’ve got to finish this form before one o’clock.”

“That’s okay,” Charles assures him, standing again. After carefully pushing the chair back closer to the desk, he stands there uncertainly for a moment, sandwich bag in hand. Then he nods and backs toward the door. “I’ll see you later then.”

“Hey, Charles?”

He pauses with his hand on the door. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. And I’ll try to be home by seven.”

Charles blinks. “Really?”

Nonchalant, Erik shrugs and unwraps his sandwich. “I haven’t got as much work as usual today. Plus, it’s Friday. I could do with a good night’s sleep anyway.”

“Oh. Of course. Sleep is important. Right. I can order takeout. You want Chinese?”

“How about Italian?” After a beat, Erik adds casually, “And a movie maybe?”

A night in together. It’s been forever since they’ve even taken the time to do that. Are all the early mornings beginning to pay off already? Charles’ heart leaps.

“Done. Only if I get to choose the movie though.”

He offers Erik a tentative smile and is delighted to see it returned in full, all sharp teeth and warm eyes on display for him.

He ends up ten minutes late to class, but it’s more than worth it.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally smashed out this chapter just in time for MY DARLING WUBBY'S BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KAGE, I LOVE YOU AND HOPE YOU HAD THE GREATEST OF TIMES TODAY. I'm totally not late because we're something like 14 hours apart. *deposits a million corgis into your lap* 
> 
> There will be either another chapter + epilogue or just a looong epilogue. Which I will get started working on now. Right now. Promise.

That night, he pulls out the takeout menu for the Italian place Erik likes and perches on one of the stools by the kitchen counter, his leg curled around the stool’s leg for balance as he considers their options. Since he’d had an early lunch, he’s now starving and every item on the menu looks drool-worthy. From past experience, the fettuccine alfredo is absolutely divine, but so is the calzone. Erik likes both but usually prefers one or the other, depending on his mood.

He considers texting Erik to ask which he’d like tonight, but before he can, his phone rings. Absently, he pushes off the stool to retrieve it from his bag in the hallway, carrying the menu along to scan it over. Maybe a change of pace would be nice tonight. They can try something they’ve never had before.

A glance at the screen reveals an unknown number. Half certain it’s a misplaced call, Charles answers, “Hello?”

“Professor Xavier?”

The nervousness in the voice sharpens Charles’ attention immediately. “Yes? Who is this?”

“Um, hi. My name is Scott. Scott Summers. My brother’s name is Alex. He’s in one of your classes. And he’s in the MSA, I think. The Mutant Students Association?”

“Yes, of course I know Alex. Saw him earlier today, in fact. Is something wrong?”

A shaky exhale echoes down the line. “Alex got into some trouble and I found your number in his stuff and I thought you could…I thought you could help.”

Charles drops the menu and heads immediately for door. “What kind of trouble? What can I do?”

“I don’t know. He just—He got into a fight and the police came and they took him and a couple of other guys away and they put an inhibitor on him and he was really—he was angry and I was scared and I didn’t know what to do so I ran away and I—”

“Scott, slow down.” Pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear, Charles shoves on his shoes and grabs for his coat and scarf. “Breathe for a moment. That’s right. That’s good. Now tell me, where is Alex now?”

“At the police station, I think. I haven’t heard anything and it’s been—God, it’s been, like, two hours or something.”

“Okay, and where are you?”

“At home.”

“Okay, I want you to stay there, alright? I’m going to get this sorted, don’t worry.”

Just as he picks his keys out of the key dish in the entrance hallway, the door swings open and Erik steps through, windswept and weary. It’s seven o’clock. There’s no dinner and Erik’s mind is prickly all over again, his light mood from lunch nothing but a distant memory now. The only positivity that lingers in the exhausted buzz of his thoughts is the anticipation of a hot dinner and a quiet evening on the couch with Charles curled up by his side.

Shit. He’s going to be disappointed, and that disappointment is going to turn into anger in a heartbeat. Charles’ stomach flips.

As Erik drops his keys on the hallway table, he takes one look at Charles and frowns. “Where are you going?”

“I’m—Scott, I’ll call you back in a moment, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” Hanging up, he slips his phone into his coat pocket and answers, “I’m so sorry, Erik, but something’s come up. I’ve left the takeout menu on the counter and I’ve loaded up the DVD player with _Star Wars_.”

Erik stares blankly at him. “Something’s come up? What has?”

“It’s nothing I want to bother you with—”

“You’re not bothering me,” Erik says, his tone bordering on irritable. His hand is clenched tight around the handle of his briefcase, and his eyes narrow. “What’s come up?” he repeats belligerently.

“Erik, please—”

“No. First you complain about how I’m never home and then on the times I make an effort to get home for you, something always _comes up—_ ”

“That’s not true.”

“The Saturday you went to Toronto. Today. I could have stayed in the office tonight,” Erik growls, his eyes flashing. “If you’re just going to waste my time making me come home, then why even bother?”

Wasting his time. Charles yanks his telepathy in and coils it close to avoid lashing out.

“My student,” he says sharply, struggling to curb his own temper, “got into some trouble with the police tonight. I’m going to see if I can help.”

That arrests Erik’s annoyance instantly. His brows draw together as he stills. “What?”

“What was it you said about how I didn’t give a fuck about mutants anymore?” Charles snaps, losing control of his anger in spite of himself. “Well, here’s me giving a fuck. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” He hadn’t been aware of how much that accusation still stung until this moment. Charles is trying to do some good like Erik would want and Erik’s acting like he’s skipping out on their night together because he _wants_ to, because he’s just flighty and inconstant and thoughtless like that? Bloody fucking _hell_.

“Why don’t you sit here then and order some Italian and think about how much you suffer for your waste of a husband,” he snarls caustically. “What a fucking _shame_ you had to force yourself to come home. Get yourself something to eat so it’s not a _complete_ waste of time and then go back to the office. At least then you’ll be where you really want to be.”

He stalks past Erik in a fury but he’s barely put his hand on the doorknob when Erik says, “Wait.”

He hesitates for just a moment before turning the doorknob and pulling the door open. As he stomps down the front stairs, Erik’s presence follows just behind him, his boots crunching on scattered leaves on the sidewalk as he hurries to catch up.

“Charles, wait.”

Charles stops, but only because he has to unlock his car. Erik takes advantage of his brief pause to put a hand over the driver’s door so that Charles can’t open it and asks, “You said this kid’s a mutant?”

Charles glares at him blackly. “Does it matter?”

Erik sighs. “I’ll go with you.”

“I wouldn’t want you wasting your precious time on me,” Charles sneers.

At his tone, lightning cracks ominously on the edge of Erik’s mind and then, ever so slowly, recedes. He’s making a visible effort to hold himself back, and that, more than anything, cools Charles’ anger. “Look,” Erik points out, holding up a conciliatory hand, “if he’s in any kind of legal trouble, it might help to have a lawyer on hand, don’t you think?”

For a moment, he allows the ire inside him to simmer and roil. It feels good to be angry, feels better than just being exhausted and sad. But rationally, he knows that clinging to negative emotions is petulant and hardly conducive to his goal of winning Erik back and, more importantly, to the task at hand. Erik’s right: if this is serious, Alex is going to need a lawyer, or at least someone who knows his way around the legal system.

He nods. “Alright. Get in.”

Erik lets go of the driver’s door and rounds the car to the passenger seat. They’re silent as they buckle up, the air between them thick and heavy with tension. But at least the jagged edges of Erik’s anger—and Charles’ own—have smoothed away somewhat. What they’re left with is an uncomfortable quiet, shivering over them with enough tangibility to raise gooseflesh on Charles’ arms.

In an effort to ignore Erik’s gaze, Charles pulls his phone back out and redials Scott. Putting him on speakerphone, he collects the relevant information—as far as he can tell, Alex is being held at the 28th precinct, he hasn’t used his phone call, Scott doesn’t know much more than that—and holds him on the phone long enough to make sure he’s alright before hanging up.

As soon as his voice cuts out, the awkward silence returns like a choking smog. Charles presses his foot down on the gas pedal a little harder, eager to get to the police station and out of the enclosed space of the car, eager for air.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says suddenly, quietly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. For saying that coming home had been a waste. You know I didn’t mean it.”

He could take the apology. He could accept it and be gracious and tell Erik it’s alright, but instead he growls, “Do I?”

Part of him regrets the challenge immediately, wonders why he can’t just let things _go_. Another part takes a vicious satisfaction in the way Erik’s eyebrows jump in surprise. “Of course. Of course you do.”

The frustration that has been building in his chest for months begins to spill from the confines of the mental lockbox he’s been shoving it in. Try as he might, he can’t hold back the snap in his voice. “I really don’t, Erik. I feel like I don’t know anything about us anymore. Maybe you should enlighten me.”

Erik stares openly at him now, his expression baffled. “Enlighten you? About _what?”_

Charles almost stops the car. He almost slams on the brakes and pulls off to the side of the road so he can fucking _laugh_ because if Erik hasn’t noticed there’s something seriously wrong with their marriage, if Erik hasn’t realized that there’s something wrong with _them_ , then what the fuck is even the point?

Somehow he keeps driving steadily, his hands clenched white-knuckled on the steering wheel. “Nothing,” he grits out through his teeth. Nothing at all.

“Charles…”

“His name is Alex Summers,” Charles says, keeping his eyes on the road. He can’t look at Erik now. If it weren’t for the fact that Alex will probably need Erik’s counsel, Charles would stop the car and tell Erik to get out because he needs space to _breathe_ , or perhaps to laugh until he cries because he just feels so fucking ruined right then that he can’t stand to be anywhere near his husband. He just wants to get _away_.

“What?” Erik says after a pause, clearly thrown by the non sequitur.

Charles inhales slowly. “My student. The one we’re going to see. His name is Alex Summers. He took my mutant studies class last year. He’s the one who works at the deli. It was his brother who called me, told me he’s gotten into some sort of trouble. Got into a fight or something and the police were called.”

Even with his telepathy tightly coiled up, he knows the gears of Erik’s mind are turning, shifting from one problem to the next with the sort of efficient compartmentalization that makes him such a good lawyer. Their fight isn’t over, not in the slightest, but Erik’s just as capable of putting it away as Charles is. For now, they’ve got more important matters at hand.

“Okay,” Erik says, “Alex Summers, what’s his power?”

“He can release energy blasts from his body with concussive force.”

“Dangerous?”

“Quite.”

Erik makes a considering noise. “If he used his powers in the fight, this is going to go worse for him.”

Charles grimaces. “Then let’s hope he stuck to his fists.”

When they arrive at the precinct, they skip the introductions and ID checks at the front desk because the officers recognize Erik. “28th precinct,” Erik explains as they’re ushered through the entry. “We catch a lot of cases here.”

“Any friends here you can ply for favors?” Charles murmurs.

“Actually, yes. I’ve had drinks with a detective here a few times. Darwin’s a good guy. I can give him a call.”

Grateful, Charles nods. “Thanks.”

They’re led down to the holding cells, which are mostly empty save for one inhabited by a drunkard, plus one caging in three guys sporting black eyes and various bruises. When Charles peers into the last one at the end of the row, Alex glances up from where he’s sitting on the cold bench with his head bowed and leaps up when he catches sight of who’s come. “Professor!”

Charles puts his hand on the bars. “Alex. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m okay, I’m just—What are you doing here?”

“Your brother called me and told me what happened.”

“Scott?” Alex’s eyes widen. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, he’s at home.” Alex seems more or less unharmed, save for a dark bruise that’s beginning to bloom across his cheek. On closer inspection, Charles notices that the knuckles of his right hand are split and red with raw skin. “Fistfight?”

Though Charles makes sure to cut out any hint of condemnation from his voice, Alex’s expression shutters. Dropping his eyes, he mutters, “They started it.”

“Tell me what happened,” Erik interjects, stepping more fully into view.

Suspicion flits across Alex’s face. “Who’re you?”

Charles almost reaches out to put a hand on Erik’s shoulder but pulls back before he makes contact. Clasping his hands behind his back, he explains, “Alex, this is my husband, Erik. He’s a lawyer who specializes in cases involving mutants. He can help if you tell him exactly what happened.”

“ _You’re_ Erik?” Alex eyes him. “The one who always gets the kosher sandwiches?”

Erik glances at Charles, who manages a smile. “Like I said, he’s from the deli. Look, why don’t you two talk? I’m going to go see about getting Alex out of here.”

“It’ll be bail,” Erik tells him. “They never release mutants on recognizance.”

Charles sighs. “I’ll go see about that then.”

An accommodating officer escorts him from the holding cells to get the money situation sorted. He’s informed of the amount, which, thankfully, isn’t exorbitant. Since they don’t accept personal checks and he doesn’t have $2000 cash on him, he has to run out to find a place still open so he can get a money order, and by the time he finally makes it back, Erik’s standing in the bullpen chatting with a thin, young officer Charles assumes is Darwin.

“Hey,” he says as he approaches them, “I’ve posted bail so once you’re ready we can get Alex and go.”

Erik shifts back to give Charles room to step in. “Darwin, this is my husband, Charles.”

Darwin’s eyebrows rise. “Husband? So the elusive spouse finally makes an appearance.” To Charles, he holds out his hand and smiles. “Armando Muñoz. Darwin’s a nickname.”

“Ah, Charles Xavier,” Charles replies, giving him a firm handshake. “Pleased to meet you.”

“This is a bit of a surprise,” Darwin remarks. “I noticed the wedding ring, but Erik never talks about his personal life.” He scrutinizes Charles for a moment before shrugging affably. “I’m not sure what I imagined his significant other to be like, but I can’t say I imagined you.”

“I…Thank you?”

“It’s a good thing,” Darwin assures him with a laugh.

“Right,” Erik says, nodding at Charles. “If you’re ready to go…”

“Ready when you are.”

“I’ll have an officer take you down to Mr. Summers then,” Darwin offers.

He sends them off with Officer Bell, who has both Charles and Alex sign some paperwork before letting them head out. As they leave the station, Charles asks, “Should we send you straight off home, or do you want to pick up dinner first? Erik and I haven’t eaten yet either, so it wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I really should be getting home,” Alex answers, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Scott will be waiting, and I don’t want to impose…”

“Nonsense. We’ll get something to-go and you can take it home to Scott.”

They pile into the car and then search up Alex’s address on Charles’ phone. It’s not too far away, and though Alex reiterates that he could just take a cab, Charles refuses to let him wait.

Thankfully, with a third person in the car, the tension between Charles and Erik is less noticeable, and he can keep up a steady stream of conversation with Alex to fill the silence. Alex is a bit reticent at the beginning, but once he gets on the subject of his brother, there’s no shutting him up. Charles learns almost everything about Scott, from his favorite subjects in high school to the height and eye color of the girl Scott’s been eyeing for prom. It’s endearingly obvious that Alex adores his brother, and Charles is almost loath to cut off his story about Scott’s latest track meet when they arrive at Alex’s apartment.

As Alex climbs out, Charles rolls down his window to hand over the box of pizza they’d picked up along the way. “Take care,” he says, “and stay out of trouble. Remember, if you ever need anything, give me a call.”

Erik leans across the center console and adds, “Call me with your court date and I’ll get it settled for you.”

Alex smiles tentatively. “Thank you. Both of you. I owe you.”

“Just don’t get into another scuffle and we’ll call it even,” Charles tells him.

“Deal.”

They wait until he’s safely in the building before pulling back off the curb and heading home. A silence returns in Alex’s absence, but it isn’t quite uncomfortable yet. Still, unwilling to break the momentary peace, Charles lays his head against the window and pretends to fall asleep.

When they pull to a stop in front of their home, Erik says gently, “Hey, Charles, wake up.”

“Mm,” Charles says, raising his head. Pizza box in hand, he unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the car.

They eat in the living room with the TV turned on. Another barrier between them, Charles muses, watching the show unfold without really paying attention to it. He’s much more aware of the way Erik stares at his pizza instead of at the screen, engrossed as he is in his own thoughts. Some other time, he might have been annoyed at the TV for slotting another divide between them, for making it so they don’t have to communicate at all. But tonight, he’s tired and he’s glad for some mindless noise to keep them from talking. From arguing.

Afterwards, he dumps their paper plates in the trashcan and sticks the extra pizza into Ziploc bags to put in the refrigerator as Erik disappears into the office. He’s washing his hands and deciding between catching up on news or going directly to bed when Erik says from the doorway of the kitchen, “I’m sorry.”

Charles doesn’t turn around but he does turn the faucet off. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It’s…What I said earlier about it being a waste of time to come home. I shouldn’t have said that. And what I said about you not caring about mutants anymore, that was cruel and unfair.”

This time he takes the apology and sinks it into his mind, lets the words really soak in. It’s good enough, yes. “It’s alright, Erik.”

“Will you look at me?”

After a beat, he turns around and leans his back against the sink, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind him. Erik stands by the door, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line. He looks frustrated and weary and sad. Join the club, Charles thinks.

“You said something in the car,” Erik continues. “You said you didn’t know about us anymore. What did you…” He hesitates.

“What did I mean?” Charles inhales slowly. This is it, isn’t it. It’s now or never, and he’s said “I’m fine, it’s okay” fifty times too many already.

Crossing his arms, he says, “I need to say something.”

Erik’s throat bobs in a swallow, but his expression doesn’t change. “Alright. I’m listening.”

He takes a deep breath to gather his thoughts and then nods. “Alright. Don’t say anything, just listen for a moment. I know you’ve noticed that our marriage hasn’t been working lately. Things have been…hard and you can’t deny that. We barely speak anymore and when we do, we’re yelling at each other. You’re hardly home when I am, and if you are, we’re both too tired to do much. We don’t eat together, we don’t interact, we’ve hardly even touched each other in weeks. This isn’t…I know this isn’t what I signed on for when I agreed to marry you, Erik.”

He can feel Erik’s gaze boring into his face for a long minute. Then Erik says, very quietly, “You regret marrying me.”

“No, Erik, that’s not what I—”

“You regret marrying me and now you want out. You want a divorce, is that it?” And there’s the anger, masking the flash of hurt. Erik has never learned to react to pain any other way. “You want me to draw up papers? I have a friend who can have them faxed over by morning—”

“Erik, _stop_.” He has to force himself not to be nettled. He’s determined to say his piece calmly and reasonably. Still, it takes an effort to ignore the wave of antagonism rolling off Erik. “Just listen, alright? I don’t want a divorce. I just want…I want an answer. These last few months, we’ve been stuck in a…in a limbo, and we can’t keep living like this. It’s hurting both of us, and I don’t want to hurt you. I love you.”

Oh, how long has it been since he’s said that aloud? How long has it been since either of them has said anything close? Erik’s gaze sharpens, eyes dark and unreadable in the uneven light of the kitchen. When he opens his mouth, Charles cuts over him quickly, “I love you. That’s still true. And if you…if you don’t love me anymore, that’s okay—”

“Charles—”

“No, please. Let me say this.” Even when he takes a deep breath, his lungs don’t seem to inflate fully. His heart is either beating too fast for him to feel or it’s stopped entirely. The words lodge momentarily in his throat before he forces them out, one by one. “If you don’t love me anymore, it’s okay. I just need to know. I’m not happy and I know you aren’t either. If you’d be happier without me, I’d…I don’t want to say I’d be fine without you, but I’d be okay. I don’t want you to feel trapped in this marriage if it’s not where you want to be.”

“Charles.” Erik smiles, incredulity pouring off of him. “Where did you—How could you even _think_ I didn’t love you? It’s been hard, of course, but all marriages are hard. We knew we’d hit rough patches—”

“No, Erik, it’s not that.” Frustration bleeds into his voice. Does Erik really not see how fractured they’ve become? How can he think this—all of this, how they are now—is supposed to be _normal?_ “We used to talk every day. Long phone calls about nothing at all even though we were supposed to be working. We used to eat dinner together and have sex everywhere and you’d wake me up with a blowjob and we’d both be late to work and we didn’t care. I used to skip class sometimes because you wanted to take me on three-day weekend dates and I used to kidnap you from your office so we could get ice cream at the park in the afternoon when we knew there’d be discounts because that’s when kids get out of school. Do you remember that?”

Erik’s smile fades at the corners. “Charles…”

“Because I do,” Charles continues, his throat tight. “I remember it and I miss it. I miss you so fucking much, all the time, and I miss how we used to be. You can’t tell me that we’re just going through a rough patch and that everything will magically get better if we just wait for it to. You never believed in miracles, you believed in taking action, and this is me, taking action.”

He pushes off the sink and lifts his eyes to meet Erik’s. “I want you to think about it. Don’t say anything tonight. We’re both tired and high-strung. But I need to know where this is going. Us. Where we’re going, or not going. I won’t be upset with you either way. I’m just tired of not knowing. Please.”

The temptation to glean what he can from Erik’s head is nearly overpowering, but he fights it away. Instead, he walks to the door and slips past Erik through it, darting past as quickly as he can because he’s half-hoping, half-afraid Erik will pull him back. But no hand grabs for his, no voice follows him out. Disappointment and relief sink in knots through his chest.

He grabs a blanket from the hallway closet and settles himself in on the couch. Then he turns the TV on so he won’t have to listen to Erik moving around and eventually, partway through an episode of CSI, he falls asleep.

 

*

 

Erik’s gone when he wakes. The moment he opens his eyes, he knows he’s alone in the apartment, and for a long few minutes, it’s all he can do to clench his fists into the blanket and stare hard at the ceiling trying not to cry. That’s it then. Erik’s reply couldn’t be clearer.

Divorce. He turns the idea dully over in his mind. What an ugly word. He’s not sure how they’ll go about it, but that’s what Erik’s lawyer friend is for, he supposes. They’ll have to divide their things probably. There are so many things around the house they bought together, things they consider _ours_. Maybe Erik can have half and he’ll take half. But no, Erik’s not sentimental like he is. He’ll probably tell Charles to just take it all.

After a while, he sits up and leans over to put his head in his hands. At least it’s Saturday and he can spend the weekend moping. If Erik’s gone to work early, he likely won’t be back until late, so Charles has time to pull himself together and figure himself out. Small mercies.

When the front door swings open, his heart squeezes so hard it hurts. Leaping to his feet, he whirls in time to see Erik come through, laden with paper grocery bags in each arm. He flicks the door shut and then stops when he spots Charles standing by the couch, eyes wide.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” Charles manages. “I thought you’d…”

“What? Left?”

He says it flippantly, with a small smile, but the expression on Charles’ face sobers him in an instant. Stepping into the living room, he deposits the bags in the nearby recliner and closes the distance between them. When he cups Charles’ face, Charles sucks in a sharp breath. “Erik.”

“You thought I’d just leave like that?” Erik asks, his brows furrowed as he searches Charles’ eyes. “Without giving you even the courtesy of a straight answer?”

“I don’t know.” Charles hesitates before reaching up to clasp Erik’s wrists, lightly at first and then more firmly when Erik doesn’t protest. “I’m not sure.”

Erik just gazes at him for a minute, his fingers long and warm across the curves of Charles’ cheeks. Uncertainty dances underneath his fingertips, searing across their contact like sparks. Charles holds his breath without meaning to.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says finally, locking their eyes together. “I’m sorry for being so difficult these last few months. What’s…happened to us. It’s my fault. You’re my husband, and I should have paid better attention, I should have taken better care of you. I’m sorry for leaving you alone so long and for losing my temper with you all the time. I’ve been an ass. What you said last night about wanting to know where we stand? My answer is, I don’t know. I don’t know where we’re going. But I want to find out with you.”

He can feel hope threatening to swell within him and stamps it down. “Are you saying…”

“I’m saying, I love you. And I miss us, too.”

Erik’s eyes are solemn and sincere and there’s a warmth in his mind Charles hasn’t felt in so long that it’s almost unfamiliar. When Charles yanks him forward and pulls their mouths together, Erik lets out a sound that sends a hot thrill of desire down Charles’ spine and lights up his mind like brilliant firework bursts. He kisses Erik hungrily, desperately, and Erik returns his feverish touches in kind, his hand falling from Charles’ jaw to his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt. He’d meant for it to be a quick kiss, just a touch, but Erik draws him deeper, his teeth tugging on Charles’ bottom lip, his hand slipping up Charles’ shirt and skimming along the line of his ribs. It’s the first time in ages he’s felt a definite connection between them, and it’s nothing short of magnificent.

They stagger back together, aiming for the couch but Erik’s foot catches on the leg of the coffee table and Charles’ weight against him unbalances them both and they topple hard into a sprawled heap on the floor.

Charles sits up as soon as he catches his breath. “Oh God, are you okay?”

Winded, Erik wheezes out a laugh. “I think you might have cracked a rib.”

“What!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I think. Come here.”

Charles leans back over him and smiles as Erik pulls him in for another kiss, this one tamer and slower. This time, Charles allows a tendril of his telepathy to brush across Erik’s mind as they touch, and the emotion that surges up toward him makes him gasp aloud against Erik’s mouth.

“What?” Erik murmurs, kissing his jaw. “What is it?”

Charles buries his face against Erik’s neck and laughs shakily. “You love me.”

“Yeah. Of course I do.”

“It hasn’t exactly been…it hasn’t been obvious lately. There were times I was sure you hated me.”

Erik is silent for a long moment, surprise and guilt flashing through him. Then he pulls Charles up so he can look at his face and says, “I know I’ve been impatient and short with you a lot. I’m not winning any awards for husband of the year. But not once have I ever regretted being with you. And I’ve _never_ hated you. Don’t ever think that.”

His words seem to fill Charles’ chest with enough hot air to lift him into the sky, and Charles is embarrassed to find his eyes growing wet. “It’s not all you. I’ve been awful at times, too, and I’m sorry for it. I couldn’t have expected you to just know how I was feeling. I admit, I can be embarrassingly bad at communication sometimes. I’m sorry for forgetting to get groceries and for yelling at you about never being home when I know you’re busy. It’s just—lonely sometimes, and I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t. Don’t apologize for that. That’s my fault, and I’ve missed you, too.” Erik kisses him, his fingers digging into Charles’ arm with surprising force. “I’ve missed you so damn much.”

They lie there for another few glorious minutes until Charles has nearly dozed off on Erik’s chest. Then Erik says, “I should put the eggs and milk in the refrigerator.”

“Oh yeah.” Charles lifts his head. “You went shopping? Before eight in the morning?”

“I wanted to make you breakfast. And I got enough to make us both dinner, too.”

“You—breakfast?”

“You’ve used up everything in the kitchen making me breakfast this past week. I thought it’d be nice to return the favor.”

“Oh. What about lunch then?”

“I thought we could go out.” Erik strokes a line down his back, slow and soothing. “To the deli maybe? I should talk with Alex anyway, if he’s working today.”

“Right.”

That earns him half a frown. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic about the idea.”

“I’m…” He grins. “I’m _ecstatic_. It sounds marvelous. Come on, we don’t want anything going off.”

They gather up the bags and carry them to the kitchen, where Erik pulls out what he needs for breakfast and Charles goes about putting up the rest. They keep getting in each other’s way while moving around the kitchen and instead of getting annoyed, Charles finds himself oddly charmed whenever Erik runs into him when reaching for a pan or a spatula. It’s only when Erik knocks into him as they both reach for the freezer door that he realizes Erik’s doing it on purpose, that he’s angling for a kiss. With a laugh, he turns his head to press their lips together, briefly but enough to give Erik a taste. Then he pulls away and opens the freezer door between them.

“Tease,” Erik accuses.

“I’m hungry,” Charles tells him imperiously. “Get to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s sticking a box of wheat crackers into the pantry when Beyoncé asks from behind him, “ _You ready?”_ He turns to find Erik smirking at him, his hand on his iPod in the dock on the counter.

“A little entertainment for the chef,” he says archly.

Charles scoffs. “You are so skeevy.” But he rolls up his sleeves and begins to rock his hip to the beat, glorying in the way Erik’s eyes are pinned to the shift of his legs. The last time he’d danced in the kitchen with Raven, Erik had barely stuck around to give him a second look. Now, he’s not even disguising the fact that he’s staring, spatula in hand forgotten as Charles shimmies across the kitchen away from him, ass shaking enticingly. It feels as freeing as dancing in the club in Toronto but a dozen times better, because it’s not a horde of random people watching him, it’s Erik, whose eyes are dark with sudden lust, whose mind is filled with ideas of forgoing breakfast entirely and taking this directly to a reunion in bed because it’s been far too long.

“Tempting,” Charles remarks, sliding past the stove, “but I really am hungry.”

“I can tell you that food is the farthest thing from my mind right now,” Erik tells him, a bit hoarsely.

“Oh, I _know_ that.”

Another circuit around the kitchen is all Erik can take before he reaches out and snags Charles around the waist when he nears. Charles lets out a breathless shout of surprise as Erik swings him around on his momentum, nearly sending him crashing into the cabinets by the fridge. He clings to Erik’s arms to keep from falling, which brings him close enough for Erik to start to mouth at his neck. Erik’s teeth scraping across his skin makes him shiver and gasp, his cock jumping to attention at the sensation.

Erik laughs at his reaction. “Is that all it takes to turn you on these days?”

Charles flushes. “In my defense, it’s been a while.”

The playfulness in Erik’s mind falters. “Yeah. It has.”

“Of course,” Charles says, forcefully bright, “we’re going to have to have vigorous sex multiple times a day to even begin to make up for it, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Erik says slowly. Then he grins, and the discomfort that had begun to creep back between them eases. “Yes, I think we will.”

Breakfast involves sitting at the kitchen table stealing eggs and toast from each other’s plates as they work through the crossword book together. They’re sitting close enough that their thighs brush tantalizingly, and Erik bumps shoulders with him every time he leans over to fill out a column or row. The physical contact and the comfortable quiet of the morning is both heady and entirely distracting. Charles revels in it.

Eventually, while Erik’s distracted trying to figure out a nine-letter solution to “noon, for many,” Charles reaches down and lays his hand on Erik’s knee. One dark eyebrow climbs but those green-gray eyes don’t waver from the puzzle. Encouraged, Charles leans up and bites down gently on Erik’s earlobe.

It’s impossible to miss the abrupt lust that surges through Erik like an electric current. Tossing down his pen, he twists to kiss Charles, hard and hungry. The kiss morphs into a low moan as Charles runs his hand up Erik’s thigh to his groin. A sizeable bulge meets his questing fingers, and Charles smiles against Erik’s mouth. _Let’s take this to bed._

“Gladly,” Erik whispers before sweeping him up off his chair quickly enough to make him yelp. They trade unhurried kisses as Erik carries him out the kitchen door, down the hallway, and then attempts to gallantly bear him to bed. But he bangs Charles’ leg against the doorframe of the bedroom, which unbalances his grip enough to send Charles tumbling to the floor, hitting the rug with a startled shout.

Erik’s on his knees in an instant, reaching for Charles’ trembling shoulder. “Charles? You okay?”

It takes Erik a second to realize that Charles is laughing, not crying, and when he does, he sits back on his heels and huffs out a wry exhale. “I’m sorry. I used to be better at this.”

“You were,” Charles agrees, chuckling as he rubs at his sore shoulder. “You didn’t drop me when you carried me over the threshold of our house when we got home after the honeymoon.”

“Yeah, I didn’t. And then you carried me, with a little more difficulty.”

“I’d say I had an easier time of it than you did,” Charles retorts. “You were clinging to me like an octopus, you were so afraid I was going to drop you.”

“That’s a lie. I trusted you. I still trust you.”

After a moment, Erik moves to sit, his back against the doorframe. Sensing the mood change, Charles rolls over onto his back next to him, arousal still coursing through him but dimmed now. The frantic urge to touch subsides.

“You know,” Erik says after a while, “I’ve been keeping myself so busy lately that I didn’t realize how much I missed this. You. It’s been…” He twists his fingers together and glances down at his feet. “You haven’t been in my head a lot. With your telepathy, I mean.”

“You haven’t exactly been home a lot either,” Charles replies without thinking. He regrets the bitter sentiment instantly, but Erik only nods and says, “I know. I’m sorry. I…well, I say I’m always busy and it’s true. There are always cases. But the truth is, I take on more cases than anyone else, even when someone else can take the lead. I’ve been…”

“Obsessed?”

“ _Devoted._ Devoted to my job. Don’t tell me you haven’t taken on classes you didn’t need to either. I know you’re teaching more hours this semester than you ever have before. And you can complain about my long hours all you want, but that doesn’t change the fact that you work in your lab at ungodly hours of the night, too.”

“I…do. But that’s…” He bites his lip. “You’re right. I’ve been working a lot, too, no excuses. Part of our drifting was my fault, too. I didn’t speak up when I should have, and when I did, I wasn’t exactly levelheaded about it. I don’t want you to feel completely at fault for the state of our marriage. I don’t want you to resent me for making you feel like that.”

Erik blinks. “I…”

“Erik, I know you. You feel guilty about us right now and you’ll simmer in that guilt until you get angry with yourself for it, and eventually you’ll turn that anger outward because you’ve never been good at internalizing it. And then I’ll get angry in return and we’ll just hurt each other all over again.”

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Erik sighs. He leans his head against his closed fist and asks ruefully, “Can I get anything right?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can either. But we can at least try and start over, can’t we?”

Erik shuts his eyes for a moment, his thoughts flying a mile a minute. Charles doesn’t bother trying to decipher them, just reaches out to take Erik’s hand in his. After a long pause, Erik squeezes his hand and says quietly, “I don’t deserve you.”

The sincere, unshakeable conviction in his voice makes Charles’ stomach twist. “Probably not,” he teases with a smile as he leans up to press their foreheads together, “but you can certainly spend the rest of the morning trying to convince me otherwise.”

“Done,” Erik whispers. He presses a kiss to Charles’ mouth before standing up and holding out his hand. Charles takes it with a grin that turns into a gasp when Erik sweeps his knees out from under him, arms firm around his body.

This time they make it safely to the bed and they don’t get out again for hours.

 

*

 

The sex is, objectively, not the best they’ve ever had. It’s frantic and touch-starved and a little too fast to truly enjoy, but they both have fun with the brief foreplay and they both get off and they both lie sweaty and sated afterwards, tangled in the covers with the blankets twisted around their knees. It’s not great sex, but it’s an adequate release and the lack of tension afterwards in Erik’s perpetually-knotted shoulders is testament enough to how much they’ve needed this.

“I’ve been so busy I haven’t even jerked off in weeks,” Erik pants, shaking his head against the pillow. “I don’t know how I’ve managed it.”

Charles nips at his shoulder. “You’ve got more willpower than I do, that’s for sure.”

Erik blinks. “Wait. Does that mean you’ve…?”

“In the shower. Once.” He allows a pause to draw out before adding, “While thinking of you.”

Groaning, Erik pulls him closer and runs a hand down to cup his ass. “The real question is, how the hell I’ve been getting any work done at all when I could be spending all that time having sex with you.”

“That _is_ a mystery. Do you remember that one time you were so stressed about your case that I came by your office to try to cheer you up and—”

“You gave me that lap dance that I’ll never forget in my life,” Erik growls, his eyes brightening at the memory, “and then you didn’t let me come. You gave me a boner and then you went home, you asshole.”

Charles laughs. “I wanted to get you to follow me home and you did. You took the rest of the day off and we have sex on the carpet of the living room and we had rug burns for ages. Those were good times.”

“They were.” Erik kisses his neck fondly.

“You know,” Charles muses, tilting his head back as Erik begins to trace his freckles with his lips, “they don’t have to be past tense.”

“Mm, I’m so busy these days.”

“All the more reason.”

“True.” Erik moves down to his collarbones, biting down on their edges hard enough for Charles to hiss and then licking the reddened skin. “I probably couldn’t manage a half day off without planning for it ahead of time. But I won’t say no to office visits.”

“So I can come by and give you boners and leave? I forgot how masochistic you could be, Erik.”

“Oh, come on. We may be older but I think we can manage a quickie now and again. Case in point…”

He ducks down and slips Charles’ cock into his mouth so unexpectedly that Charles jerks with a curse. Amazingly, he’s hard again already, and Erik sucks him off masterfully, aware of Charles’ body in ways no one else is. They’ve had so many years to learn each other’s sensitive points and favorites, and even the months apart haven’t stripped them of that knowledge. Erik swallows him down completely and then pulls off until he’s just pressing light kisses to the underside of Charles’ cock, teasing at its worst. Charles’ hips buck up toward him but he holds them down without much effort, leaving Charles at his mercy. But the pace isn’t steady for long—after a minute, Erik begins to blow him with gusto, with the clear intention of bringing him off as quickly as possible, and it doesn’t take long for Charles to come hard in his mouth with a shout, fingers clenching so tightly around the bed sheets that he thinks he hears the fabric rip.

“Oh God,” he gasps as Erik climbs back up to him, smiling smugly as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was…probably barely two minutes. Case very well made, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

Erik flops onto his back, his own cock half-hard. “Do you want to have a go then?”

“Is that a challenge?”

“I’m not saying it.”

But his eyes tell a different story. He knows, damn him, that Charles can never resist even the hint of a contest.

“Right,” Charles mutters, licking his lips. “Keep an eye on the clock then.”

 

*

 

After they shower (together, which would probably have led to some sort of fooling around if they hadn’t been so tired) and get dressed, they head out to the deli for lunch. Charles isn’t sure of Alex works Saturdays, but when they arrive, he’s standing behind the counter looking a bit harried as he totals up orders and wishes everyone a nice day. The place is even more bustling on the weekends than it is on the weekdays, and they have to wait in line for ten minutes before they finally reach the front.

When Alex spots them, he lights up. “Professor! And Erik! Hey. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” His brows furrow as he looks at Erik. “Am I supposed to like, give you another statement or something? Can that wait until after my shift is done? I’ve only got twenty-ish minutes.”

“We’re just here for lunch,” Erik tells him.

“Oh! I’ll just—a kosher sandwich then? What about you, Professor?”

“The special please.”

“Okay, give me a minute.”

The deli is crowded but they eventually locate a small table by the window that isn’t taken. Pushing the napkin dispenser out of the way, Charles sits down and leans his elbows against the table. When Erik takes a coin from his pocket and idly floats it from hand to hand, he smiles. “I forgot you did that.”

“Did what?”

“The tricks with the coins when you’re bored.”

In reply, Erik spins the coin over to him, laying it in his open palm. When Charles looks down, the metal has reshaped itself into a heart.

It’s utterly cheesy and utterly charming. “Another for my collection,” Charles says, grinning.

“Do you still have all of them?”

“Of course. They’re in a box under the bed.” Charles plucks the heart out of his hand and admires the smooth edges of its curves. Back when they had first started dating, Erik had always made him little sculptures and pictures out of old coins, gifting them to him almost every time they went out. Charles had kept them all in a shoebox that had traveled with him when he’d moved into Erik’s apartment and then later when they’d moved into their new house after the wedding. He hasn’t taken a look at them in a long while, but he remembers them all fondly. This little heart will be in good company.

As he slips it into his pocket with a smile, his phone vibrates with a text. It’s Moira: _ask erik about friday yet?_

Oh, right. The double date. “Are you free this Friday?” he asks without looking up.

Dates and deadlines flit through Erik’s mind. “What time?”

“Probably around six.”

“Maybe. I’d have to check. Why?”

“Moira’s going on a date with this guy she’s had a crush on since forever. She wanted to know if we’d come and make it a double date.”

“Sure.”

At that, Charles does look up. “What? Really?”

Erik shrugs. “Yeah, sure. It’s been forever since we’ve been on a date. We should go out.”

The last thing he wants to do is discourage Erik from coming, but still, he’s pleasantly surprised. He can’t help but ask, “You’re okay with missing some work? I know you like working nights.”

“I think I’ve worked enough nights to last the year.” Erik shoots him a tentative smile. “Don’t you think?”

Charles’ fingers freeze over his phone. His voice is noticeably thinner when he says, “Really?”

Erik is clearly trying to act nonchalant, though his eyes are serious as he answers, “Well, we have to start somewhere, don’t we? No work Friday nights. I promise.”

Erik isn’t joking. Erik’s really doing this.

 _They’re_ really doing this.

“No work Friday nights,” Charles agrees, trying to keep his smile from seeming too giddy. “I usually have lab hours but I can cram them in in the afternoon. We can make it movie night…?”

“Only if we’re not watching _Star Trek_ every time.”

“Oh, shut up, you love it,” Charles says, suddenly, immensely fond of him. He finishes sending a reply to Moira and sets his phone by the napkin dispenser. After a moment, he lays his hand palm up on the table and smiles when Erik immediately reaches across to take it. _Thank you,_ he says, curling the words hesitantly around Erik’s mind. _I love you_.

 _I love you, too,_ Erik answers, and oh, Charles has missed this: sharing thoughts with a casual intimacy he’s never indulged in with anyone else. It’s been too long since he’s felt confident enough in their relationship to dip into Erik’s mind without first assessing his mood to gauge whether or not the contact would be welcome. Now Erik buffets him with a swell of affection when he feels Charles’ presence, projecting emotion as easily as thought. Back when they’d still been dating, Charles had spent weeks teaching Erik how to project properly without overwhelming, without making the mistake of being indistinct and vague. It’s comforting to know that that knowledge hasn’t been lost, and to think that maybe this could all be as easy as remembering how to speak to each other again.

After a few more minutes, Alex brings over their sandwiches, and, hungry as they are, they dig in with gusto. Erik spends the entire meal with his legs pushed forward so he can curl his foot around Charles’ ankle under the table, and Charles can’t stop smiling, even as he chews.

When they’re done, Erik picks up the tab and they leave Alex with a sizeable tip. As they step out of the shop, Erik suddenly catches Charles’ wrist and reels him back for a kiss right there in the doorway under the awning, his mouth slow and deliciously languorous over Charles’.

“What was that for?” Charles asks breathlessly as they break apart.

“Nothing,” Erik replies with a cheeky grin. His strides eat up the pavement so Charles has to jog to keep up. “I just felt like it.”

When he reaches down to lace their fingers together, Charles’ chest fills with a warmth that curls up under his heart and stays there, all day long.


End file.
